Whip Poor Will

let your joyish boyhood wounds be cleaned at last,
so much left to burn down to ash.
I can see the future.
you visit my cold grave.  

whip poor will
and he tumbles down,
slumped shoulder meat
been split and ground.
desecrated host
holds the unholiest ghost,
your parachute didn't open
and we dancin' so dangerously close.

isn't this a harrowing way
to shuffle loose these mortal chains?  
how many times since the beginning
have we made light of the living game?