The Wrinkled

On my terrace,
when I sidestep a crater,
and walk to the west edge,
I know I let hypocrisy survive,
run its course,
and feel blissfully immortal.

Who craves the sun more?
So I walk;
they needed a leader,
and you, dear friend,
needed a freemason to pour
grout on the cracked, wrinkled floor.

Floor?
It is the roof,
the one destined to leak,
drip, drop,
and a river cried by
a poet of very little means.​

-- Leslie