The jacket that wears wrath,
Leathered with gloom, foils.
Skin burns Iranian oils,
Black-Heart lacks heath.
Disguised in silence- loud as knellings’.
Prides itself in its lions’ dens.

Scanted in dull endeavours yearns-
For a poisonous heap of healings.

God, hands over shoulders, in regret.
Dubious in creation of the dirt-man,

Spirit when meets physical sin-
Dares to dominate powers of decent.

Lucifer hit-high-notes-high, in Inn,
To keep the ‘Jacket’ in vain.