Peacock

trailing success
In a bin that cater not for talents.
blurry view, I am sustained
with filthy arms searching for victory,
I am a ripped shadow 
with pretty poetry,
looking crippled in the bin 
that has consumed a lot.
cladding in triumph
I have retired all ill lucks, therein.
I think this folded win
should peel its dress-
this heart of mine
gaping to eat it all.
snuggle not my age-long success
say farewell
In February