The Sport of Beggars

The buzzing fly is on the airborne
Breezes of your thoughts
And spinning in and out of lives
And all of your beloved sports.
The winning of the golden cup
The wooden plaque upon your wall
Cannot stand without support
Just as you can't stand at all
But falter every time you walk,
Stumble upon your front door step
Mumble when you aimed to talk.
The winter of your inspired eyes
The splinter in your drinker's thumb
The glasses gripped between your toes,
The waiting for the dawn to come.
I don't believe you spoke a word
Outside of what you wrote that time
When everyone bowed down to you
Read twice the thoughts between each line.
But apple cores are rarely eaten
Fruit stones always spat on the ground
Just like the core, of the crux of your argument,
Just like the whispers that nobody found
When you rode away on that dust-covered nag
When you drew that curtain about yourself
When you fell upon heathens and begged their forgiveness
Gave them your vital and permanent health.
And they took your forgiveness,
Made pockets of painted cloth
And you carried on talking
Every word a hacking cough.