Monday, October 13, 2014


and there the silent ringing in the silent weeping ears
feeling weighted by the thoughts of things, the deepest longing fears
telling tales that do not happen, list'ning softly 'neath the lines
spinning, weaving, stretching, pulling, dulling, softening in the mind

for the wicker in the basket is so brittle now and frail
and the windows cracked and broken let the wind slip in and wail
the safe places once protected offer nothing of respite
from the freezing droplets mirrored in the darkness of the night

in the darkness of the heavens in which voices are so lost
in the vastness of the void, rested here on rock and moss
in the glittering of crystaliz'ed vapor on the peaks
in the beautiful destruction where the liquid vi'lence sinks

in between the pages of the vagabond's sad tale
in the places where the unaware will flounder and will fail
where off into the distance in the vast and lonely wild
in the craggy steep, the lonely keep, past long and empty mile

Where the little people look and see the mountain meet the sky
where the timid do not wander, but in warm slumber there they lie
Where the tortured earth projects its bones and fell the voices cry
In lonely silhouette of earth and stone, 'tis there am I

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