This is me new style. The old one just won't happen anymore.

All lingering things are fading, false, destructful.
What lays here discarded in roots and certainties?
Don’t leave him unaided, or habitually hostile.
They’ll give up their lives for his short incitement.

He tolerates their minds to eternally wander.
He thrills their eyes with his ailing enclosure.
They trail him always, around bigoted creeks.
Studying the filth as it materializes about his feet.

Sightless though they falter, his wasteland behind.
Still scorched and perplexed, yet there they are silent.
Yearning for shells of thrown away ink cartridges.
A keg stop or two of incurably fabulous dictions.

He halts and remembers, the days he was free.
Before a trustworthy grotto came with a charge.
To allow him to persist, but not without threat.
While his gathering keeps a secure space in his wake.