When

When will I scale the monolithic ladder?
cast aside this enormous ticking clock?
Push over the concrete towers,
or dust off the mountains in my path?

Raise up a wall for my insides,
Sew a bridge for all of you to cross.
Massage the bones of the deceased;
A revolt of colors, the guilty note played.

Buried in tanned leather and flaky bark,
drowned in salty wine and sweet excretion.
Once bitten and swallowed, then shuttered and stomped,
Drinking from a guillotine chalice, shackled to the masses.
A stench of wet socks and a hint of completion.