Gone to lie down in the wild heath

atop the glacial ridge

Above the jagged scar left

from the ancient

Brown-green waters fill her void

Stones crawl through history

to lay their fingers across the flowing strings

The sweet song of stones

rise from the waters

to soar with the circling buzzards

They bring water and air to the earth

Now only fire to complete the cycle

 

The destroyer performs his role

absent judgement or morals

Gleefully shredding your fragile parchments

those mortal remains of your fantasies

The wolf in him no longer cowers

Sprays his mark upon your temples

as he exits from back alleyways

Ever back to the forest

eschewing your piercing lights

Better seen as twinkling dots

embedded in distant hillsides

Always known

never to belong

 

Bells may chime

or toll

or peal

Matters of mood

sense of expression

Whether to shout

or to whisper

or to weep

In the land of the deaf

they say nothing

while their hounds cower at the din

Canine wisdom or instinct

to hear whistles

while shunning sirens

Which breed is best

to be the hearing ear?

Morning tea in darkness

amid temporal fugues

I am now the waning crescent

Unfinished cigarettes burn

The ash drops; smoke rises

joining transmissions incomplete

Echoes of the Paradiso

weary of being hustled

and no longer wish to explain

to those who can hear

but refuse to listen

With dead souls that awake in the night

we leave the literal

I will now sleep in the day

 

Watching the parchment burn

Mocking leers peek out from the embers

The lines preserved in ashen shells

though none can read their meaning

Their ill winds disperse the ruins

to the great desert beyond

Tending their fragile oases

with fear and shame

Blind

to the sandstorm approaching

Our dying breath

to laugh at your failures

Your children will eat you