raw bend of metal round the corner
greets the meat of other forces,
draws spectators to the roving glare
of Sunday’s red and blue;
the shearing of confinement
takes awhile
mean times, inside, someone
cries into dark walls
about the crash of breath in bone
yet stone appears, unmoved
forget me now 
After your last 2 posts , I have been eagerly awaiting the 3rd. Needless to say , I was once again left, Spell bound.
it needs a bit of tweaking which i might do this time … it’s not quite the full octave but i’m thrilled that it intrigued you!
funny how a few weeks separation from a poem’s really vital?