Sunday, December 3, 2017

His and Mine and His and Mine.

A new fork in the road; One Great Prong,
Splitting everything, straight down the middle.
Run, and run fast
To build speed so even you don't see yourself coming
And fuck that detractor till it breaks.

Kept distracted, the noise: personified insignificance.
Dividing precious attentions and holding idle hands
Sweaty palms, bilious
Even the elbows know their grease is wasting
Figuring that maybe when fifty hits, I'll wake up

Dutch outlines and half-matured whisker growth
Pushing out of twice-matured, heavy bent disrespect
Loyalty- to truth
Courage to grind against the grain of love- conflicted
Philosophy of gut instincts have torn away familial mulch.

And I listen, I hear, and here, amidst the dust of my own mulch
I kick at my own ankles, articulating a new strain of loyalties
Burning holes to char
And rearrange the birth order of all I prioritize and toy with
As time is pissing its wits, and putrefying valuable potential.

I kept the tube out last night, and slathered sienna's and umber
Onto 'Guts' that need emphasizing and generous attention
Highlighting girth
Around the waist of all my solo twisting and wasted estrangement.
Might as well give myself the gift of visceral containment, painted hard, heavy.

Tender futures await, conscientious loving and warmest reminiscence
Even in the hound-like wail of sexual revenues long emptied
This shit better be enough
For the outline of swollen rouge and pheromone hunting hinges
To oil away softly into an eternity of  hollowed out spoons and neck-gnawing.

My ears are swallowing whole the many movements of delicious potency
Masculine carnivore with his well evaporated self-effacing roots
Steam-fucked and building
Boring scars into memory, of driving marks and hitting home
Better, more effective hammers, to get every last Fucking job done.

These are the tones of us, who ate and understood the wrongs
And welded ourselves to the ideology of 'feet put down'
To the landing of our own choosing
Because by every morning and well-endowed night, ours was the mood to honor
Rather than to punch reflected indifference and self-perpetuating shame.

The Tortured Copse

Into that vault
The armory of the wounded
Declaring the disfigurement,
And the traumatized beauty
of blackened insides.

As in chewed
Sucked, sickeningly savored
To learn and understand
and walk away and heal.

That fucking unwinding containment
Seducing interior hounds
That in their off-time
Prowl and hunt for would-be poisons
to rip and tear to unrecognizable shreds.

These mellifluous tongue-dancing preachers
Kick abstinence in the teeth
And soften crooked pathways
Bidding me to open wide
And swallow the dangling pearls-
made perfect in the shadow of corrupted circumstance.

The Rabbit Hole is between my legs.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Crash and Burn

Words are cloying.
Night is wrought
With indecision.
Who am I tonight?

Lucubrating intent
Odds swim in reverse
Cortical homunculus

Indigenous needs
Perpetrating my flow
Hijacking the night
To bid its own due

To the right, then left
Beneath feet that resist
A bolt to soft corduroy
And a blue beauty nearby

The cast, in order
Of appearance, slave
The day and all her muses
Promised much to many

Intent, this is no
Shotgun wedding.
Jumping guns to get to
A golden finish.

This is hype on hype
Magnitude personified
So many secrets told
In plain sight.

Why not wither instead
On a vine grown, un-clipped
Unhindered, wild as will
Built on the purity of its very being?

Swapped instead for
Riddling the self
For a moment

To stretch and
Combine confusion
With tampered songs
Of how the heart cried softly

Profoundly aware of
The arms of denial.
So profuse in the employ
Of its own restraint.

Vindicated, perhaps
Blue Ribbon evidence
To laud the mind of its own

To what end is this
Voraciousness plummeting?
For soon, all trajectories shift
To crash and burn energies

Their conquests, revealed.

We hope, how we hope
To have lived enough
To die right; in relaxed repose
Hungry for more.

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

‘Blue Girl’

Plucked as she rests
On a lap that has waited.
Patience can sour
If wasted on useless palms
Resting idle

The strum of a soliloquy
Will not conduct itself
Finger glide gently
Over and on top of-
The intimidation of tuning.

Ink to swill the sound shared
A beckoning, long overdue
Fuck torpid stasis
And utilize redundancy
If that is what it takes

These lessons need banging
Hard and on drums, hidden
A dare to cognition
A fluctuation into movement
To steer the hand into song.

The ticket written, sent
And now read and acted upon
A tearing of throats and
peppered goats;
“Haha, She can sing”

And she will, she WILL
And the mornings will pass
As the canyon closes
New skills to meet old faces
As  Pink Floyd plays on.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

And So He Sings...

"...there's certain things that I adore..."
Of those certain things, they placate nothing in recent years
The notes, the husky gripe, that pond-hopping drawl
Seduced, saturated in the fuse he's lit
From billions of particles that pass between us
And the lifetime we lead in distant significance
My drunken state picks up where he left off
Carrying that tune further.. into ears, into hands, into night
Muting all the noise but one- on shelves of furthest reach 

Lament is a chaotic, beautiful, graceful suggestion
To peak in a moment and push outward,  to share
Blowing those needs that squandered resilience,
And tapered nothing of the long need of sighs gone mad.
Knees, having forgotten to genuflect to the God of Skin
Dissolve in silence as the greys arrive- unplucked.
Hands wither as autonomous, mundane duties abhor their routine...
Stray trinkets of possible positioning, align nothing by way of stars
Angled movement fits badly in this heaven for one.

How many more blistered commas must segregate this, this...
This cacophony of corrupted, course-ground projections?
Segmented nonsense, punctuated by the poof of malaise gone sour
Cut myself some slack, for Christ's sake.
When did drowning in dissonance become the preferred method of travel?
Instead, carry that note of his higher, onto laps that breed warmth
And seclusion into pinker shades and the fortune of limbs
Beckoning touch- approachable, magnetic.. unencumbered
Carve the notch and all those, 'Certain Things...' will come.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

Naked as Adam

Brace the days with light
Penetrating deeply, effectively...
This hoard of ghastly uncertainty
The newest plague in Modern Life.

Some, they mate for life
Able to stay the distraction of flagrant devaluing
Catholic beginnings suggested I should
But Matriarchal inundation clarified otherwise.

If we speak, let us speak frequently and open
Naked as Adam in all his finery
And if there is no other half to this dependency-
I will speak alone, loud and with urgency.

I wade a lifetime in conclusion forming trust
That goodness be made of the mayhem endured
I wake and reach daily for that same outcome
And perhaps, in this now - it has become 'ineffective'

Needing to bat hard, the dust from what I have woven
With severity and insistance
That nothing shall ever again stand defiant
In apathetic discord of all my new hopes.

I am peeling from the burn of four decades
And taking long to heal.
Unhooking talons from the hostages crouched low
Is tedious; boring, painful... Necessary.

A Time within A Moment

I hear you. But then again, I don't.
I feel you, perhaps, is far more apropos.
"...end where we started..."
"...You and I were never too small..."
You are feeding that line that I tow.
Dare me, instead, to tear open the truth.

You come here and say just enough
To elude to the heat that roasts
And for an addict like me,
That steeps your lava in - in private
I bubble in angst at the idea of acknowledgment

Your succulent thumbprint pushes hard
It is a listless existence to not plug the prong into its best fit.
But it is the advocacy of integrity that corrodes the would-be cheater
And it is with the utmost, utmost, utmost respect
That I suck these imaginary bones between us
And savor the marrow that will never be mine.

We need, and we need, and we want
Taking nothing to balance the deficit of all the unpaid due
The reconciliation found more in acknowledged assumptions
Will be all that is required, to make it past the gates of destruction.

The deepest needs bake infinitely
In an oven that stokes itself
Bound by the respect of those that we will never know
And the happiness they will retain
As a result of a perpetually well-maintained distance.

Oil Paint...

Handfuls of misunderstandings
Pouring out of my palms
A trusted bucket, at best
This dismal vantage point - played out.

That transformational lie
Has steadfastly infected the weakest of my psyche
And aged dissent - some 35 years long
Oozes yet, with its darkened pathogens

I couldn't find my shoes last night
With eyes closed, my blanket, the fan
I spoke to relevant strangers
Their role - a murky meaning, dubious, perturbed.

In the secrecy of night, I am a buffoon to my senses

An algorithm of dust, bones and fluidity
Strokes locked into sadness, depression, seething frustration
Captured, ruptured, but stopped, stripped infinitely
In the finite action of well-preserving oil.

Indoctrinated, into the sun
The privacy, this solitude, this devotion
I hear and boom, I listen - BOOM, I hear again - shaken
Safe. In what? In here, this hide of dank loathing

Such dedicated attrition, prevailing in vain.
What mode is satisfy the hunger of starvation?
More stagnant air - more colloquial nonsense
Sent to fuck me further?

A word like bereft should only be but used once in a lifetime,

Enough nocturnal exhaust.
The hours past midnight were created for two speeds
None-of-which a restlessness following gross uncertainty - applies

Isolationism is a terror of a circumstance
Disrupted- only, from the harmony of a resting heart-rate.


It occurs to me
I act out on nothing.
Subdued. Restrained. Stuck.
Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.
Stuck fast, dreams clutched,
Squeezed without yield.
Squeezed, squeezing, coddled.
Consoled for lacking conviction
To tie the know and swing.

Thursday, August 3, 2017


Days linked in succession, life- moving.
Shelving on the interior grows taut, strong, transformed
In becoming, I find roots that entangle endlessly
Into the cornucopia of all I have amassed.
In volume, there is no need for containment.

I seek to blow out rigid outcroppings that have overstayed their welcome
Long before I knew they would attempt to become- permanent fixtures.
Elbow grease and the unlimited syrup from unspent tension
Lubricates the engine in continuous grace- by default, and with that comes
The indelible belief that the construction of credibility and character
Can often build-on when reserves feel dried, withered, wrecked.

The boom of strength sought, brings too, hope beyond measure
For a life better lived in light of understanding.
Elusive logic had robbed enough of me,
Bruised into thinking that without preparation
Countless tides of unwelcome envoys could board without pass
And with ease...destruct more in the wake of apathy, ignorance, indecision.

The nonsense too has a purpose.
I'm leaking with reasons for why the cattle-call need blaring
Potency lingers everywhere, round tufts of sweaty curls and lips gone mute
Mute from the swell of what love creates, caters to, and, cavorts with
Is it enough to say enough on this day?

From one to the next I am still holding my own hand
Touching lightly over pores that ran amok from their last leaking...
For it was so fucking long ago when clouds cloaked moons 'round Jupiter.
When freckled limbs took what was owed from olive-toned lilies,
Moaning before dawn.

Back to this, this need, this glaring wound
This hole both within and without..
This metaphor, parading itself as a half-filled glass opponent.

Drink and be free of toxicity that blisters and scorches the anterior dome.
Set free the bicuspids of love to prowl and wait
Wait for the tearing and crushing of  antiquity lost
Swapped for a new breed of satisfied momentum
Robbing legs of their loneliness and pits filled with steam.

Absorption of senses that wound themselves senseless
Their binary needs- fulfilled.

The mania slams into me sideways tonight,
As gestures in kindness reveal deeper meaning
And in that revelation, silence .
Words lack evidence of proper conveyance
As a General is backed by his history
So too is the silent, brooding integrity-
Of admiration from afar.

Monday, July 31, 2017


Confiscated, the peace I rely on, to rest the weary being that I am
Tossed to racing pulses of the non-attractive variety
Robbed of the song of night and her trusted lullaby
Stolen by hidden mood swings, burrowed deeply in
Craving the stillness of peace to wreak the maximum dose
Over wreckage that ricochets painfully, purposefully, prominently.

That wide stretch of unknown, luring me into its grandiose niche
Cumulonimbus fingers jabbing me in the neck,
Taunting me in my jackdaw-like deliberation
"...soon, soon," I tell it, "...soon will be the time to inquire within."
But too many years have slipped away since the last promise passed on
Into the motion of winds long rustled and removed

This road I find myself on has splayed open aged dreams;
I have been long away from desert dust and emotive antiquities
That inhabited the cage inside me.
A bony rack of resolute indifference;
Astute to only the practice of existence.

Whose riddles match my own,
Compliant to restraint and responsibility?
And why do I beg the question be asked at this juncture?
Inquisitive weeds have choked enough of my momentum; my mood, my mania.

T'is a torturous web to stick to and rot away on
Inhaling the beefy energies of limbs too far to travel to.
Shifted sleeves of processed countenance, shared in good faith
Stamped in the dutiful fashion of what society has agreed upon
And whisked away to the Eastern side of all I continue to ruminate over.

There are too many dead-ends I have crafted in sincerity
Flushing the blackened carriage to no avail, to  serve to polish the bleak
That has, for far too long- eaten away at my ragged edges.

I wither, I stumble, I absorb the soaking, painful, belligerent truth
I need to bend elbows back this way, into and around my own sense of self-worth
Looking for ways of penetrating that stout and honest willingness to earn,
Into buckets of 'owed'.
Owed to self.
To love,

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Let Us Out.

He breathes and
I want
That freshly pushed sound
To enter into-

Smashed up against
Darkness, and,
With eyes closed
Slit the wrists of restraint
Sucking in the muse-
Hip first.

The rumble of ooze, is
Drawing on reserves
Of too much time dealt in blows
That flooded gate

Open your arms, You
That I may inhale your Masculinity-
Pheromone first. And slice you open
To let Us out.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

The Vernacular of Indecision

Copious chunks of time
Blundering over contaminated beliefs
A sanctum of raw, and let us face it-
Useless candor.
This noise, swarming
Elected to hum into me
Over me,
Ten feet ahead of me.
Place the wormhole behind.
Is it so easy?

"A burning violin..."

Build instead, a new cavern
A place to play a succulent tune
To pluck moist notes until blisters form
To sing of oil soaked pine
...and sticky thighs.

Careful now, to not trip and crack
The point of four separate points
As they rush to converge upon the pedestal
Of highest regard.
Knocking jawbone and elbow
To the detriment of ego

The Ego of heart; the Ego of mind
The Ego of Erogenous Platitudes
...and the fourth, more contentious ego

The melody of organisms around me
Bleeding into my psyche
Juggling the 'due' in confounded annoyance
Passive/Aggressive mutinies
Multiplying in these closest, innermost boundaries

Fucking each to the other in deep succession.

Instantiated by memories and assumptions
Locked in post-haste anxiousness to serve that 'due' justice
Of an unrepentant, analgesic sort.
Transparencies kept thinner, tenuous, strenuous. Unfit,
...yet succeeding, if success is what you call failure.
These loquacious synonyms
Nothing more than the vernacular of indecision.

Sunday, March 26, 2017


Bubble of ice, or air.
Or lack of air- which is it?
Clouded in cluster-fucked conditions.
Windpipe cinching, motivated by the divide
Of reveries motioning just beyond reach.
That teenage reclusiveness
How the fuck did it ever climb back in?
And burden the wise limbs into submission...?

The savage plastic coating fits good.
Promoting the prognostication of rancid days yet to come.
More unfed love; more unfed limbs; more
Bleak; dismal; eradicating; cock-less nights.
The echoes of male murmuring,
Wriggling in between muscled impermanence
Controls my vacuous, disconcerted attention span.
Distracted, to the nines, the need for deep rubbing.

Saturday, February 25, 2017


The smell of incense interrupting my gaze
Black lines used to define- halt.
Austerity hunts early
Snaking the worm from unfed jaws.
A collaboration picks up
Carving idea where idea left off.
Two energies
Making love.
Ink mates naturally
Clung to his last delicate submission
While nearby...
Glass separates the morning between 43'
And a red desert bloom.
Elegy whispering into pristine quiet
Slipping succinctly into the well-oiled psyche
Of what is yet left to manage and handle.
Rough, warm hands are welcome
To ease the stiffness and solemnity
Of martyred tradition.
Coffee cooled yet candle leads on
Into the aromatic infusion
Of makeshift "attempted" release.
     His lines muscle in
     His devotion- profuse.
     In mirroring our addictions,
     I find secular divinity and sexual homage
     To a world knowing no limit
     As the mind runs wild.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

4 Dozen

Holding off has never been so easy.
And yet, it is as it has always been.
Buckled to my senses, to my nonsenses
Merged in unity since before my own opinion
Existed. Formed. Feigned.
How relevant have I made the wrong
Bare-knuckling my own breast
As if it were natural.
And it was, because it had been
Born that way before any notion of self
Was in the cards.

Generational. Coarse ground energies
Eaten in a circle, shit out and sprouted
Eaten again.
Patterns of breathing have evolved
Into nothing but what they came here to do
Destructive when that trauma and Egocentric world
Intensities mix. Intention, inconsequential.
The Lords of handed-down disorder
Ruling yet with leather-fisted indulgence.
Too thick they filled the wounded groove
Of who they inflicted in lives previous.

Cringing. Stimulated by revelations
That I have owned and owned and owned.
Goodness palpitates everywhere,
Blocked by blurred vision, enhanced by
Useless devotion.
Organic medleys linger, making use of any moment
Hint... interest, attentive and caring.
Empathy, magnetic..sincere...willing
These free and beautiful utilities
Open to practice and pungent;
Direct in their giving, their loving, their lift
Unconditional, as it were- to the fullest.

The new waves lap against me each day
Filling blessed moments with sunlight and
Gorgeous intention...
Teaching the elder of how the young love lives
With no effort; strong, amazing, thorough and free.
They are mine, and yielded in the soil I mixed
Pumping laughter and unkempt silliness
Minus the burden of heavy laden miseries.
In decency, in wholesomeness, they lavish my life.
By default I love more than each day before with ease
This enigma of bliss and ache,
So carefully balanced.

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Modelo and The Muse.

It might, it might... it might be over soon.
'Might', 'if', 'suppose', 'maybe'
"You are either in or out of your den, which is it?"
Ooh, that place where I find myself
When the crackling dynamite detonates.

He is as good as he ever was, no- He's better.

"Disassociate" Enough.
No other need to fill in the blanks.
"Move on..."
It's what I need to get with the 'getting on'.
Simply put, abrupt. Useful

Smoke-trails, Jameson, whiskers in the sink
It's an all-male event. He even smells masculine.
Thirty year high, like clockwork; he's an oppressive heat
It's good to know that the high standard can still be counted on
When the night stands at his attention.

Philosophy of sound, digressing lyrical brilliance
How to move blockades of 'empty' out of the way
Clipping strings to accord acoustic satisfaction
He plummets deeply, and so we both plunge;
Hand in hand.

Scruff, rubbed closely, and wandering warm hands.
Diligent, pinching fingers, direct in their appeal.
The ringing in of personal new year's has been the best yet.
He has always been close to heart and mind
And so there he will remain.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

'Taciturn Indifference'

I sit and to the left
Bold meaning hangs high.
That well-spoken half 
Whose meaning through adornment
Gains weight.

Tilted up and yet legible
I pause to ponder what protection is suitable
To preserve and still allow
Access into your last parting gift.
Riddle me this, O Meister of Misery
How now does your countenance sway?
The days race and whiplash takes me to you
Left side first on almost every morning.
Though your breadcrumbs have molded
I eat them daily.

Upload another chapter 
That I may balloon my own destiny
Anchored to the will 
To leap-
To leap...
To fly with this energy 
That boils when the night is young.

I've cornered myself on the chessboard
Between a Queen and too many pawns.
Strategy is a black veil
That I must lift or tear down.
For this, I turn, to you. 

Are your greyed reserves now blackened ash?
Have your tendons turned to jerky?
I know beyond a shadow that if your blistering heart still pumps
There is wisdom needing cultivating.
So give it to me, you intriguing prick...

For never before have I stapled my soul
To a memory that snuck in through a tiny hole of light
Devouring inhibition as you have.

You, the greatest source of intellectual income
Marrying my heart to my mind.

You, whose experiences left me dry for hesitation
And drowned for the communion of souls.

Two lines now for every point that requires discerning
Earned in the light of your regret and expertise.

Bolted to your door, my essay on 'Retourne chez moi'
Fuck these borders of land and thought. Come back.

And sewn into the wood of my skin with taciturn indifference
"Je demande des nouvelles de toi qui sont encore survivant"
Your words become mine and all this in between meaning
Fucks with my heart and my head.
Find me, Translator:
Let your body language do the rest..

Friday, January 27, 2017


The quiet
Silent movements
Burn me- strong
When they have been left,
Too long, unattended.
This sound-less template
Beckons my being
In its entirety.
I belong to the order of silence
And all things remained unspoken.

Is this prudent
To open a cascading venue
Of wailing?
From a trickle to a whisper
A whine to a wail
I cry in indelible strokes
To any surface that will listen
Any substrate that will welcome
The graceful flow
Of all my deft ability
Crafted carefully, as time wore on.
I am here now
Still perched
Betwixt the arrow and the gap
Of a precipice known too well.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017


Love's voice is loud today
From a wail to a whisper and then
A boom.
Love swells,
The internal evidence deplores
Begging for a morsel to suck on
To savor, to engorge.
The famine turns wet today
Tantalizing reasoning,
Driving wise understanding- mad.

I'm taken.
Smitten by the longing
And the ever present ardent need
To sink tongue, teeth and knees
Deepening the fervor
Of all that yet waits.

Friday, January 13, 2017


These, these dreams, these remembrances, these holes in my head.
Long spells down crooked corridors of memory
Serving the purpose of ache.
Scarring that continues to scab over
Long after the destitute reality had converted the ‘now’.
What discipline needs recruiting
To exacerbate these intimate, useless musings…
That pander to longing and worship?
Worship of a time long lost,
Whose relevance died out with its own reverence.
This wicked wind with its teeth
Biting back daydreams long drowned.
This wincing self needs guidance
To be led to thicker skins and deserved redemption.
Leave all the foundling dreams that echo
Of all we knew in our younger skins.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017



The proof provokes a stifling dichotomy.
It was said more than once that some good would come of this shit.
I wouldn't call it 'good'.
But there is more than poison
Yielding from these noxious boulders.

It's in the tone, the tenor, the tenet
A significant shift, undenied;
This pulse projects truth
The tune of which is found, in the sigh and frustration
Of years passed.

I read and realize that the detour from previous miseries

Monday, January 2, 2017


Send me there to your woodsy home
Overgrown with moss, loss and amulets of nature.
Let us brood over discoveries we learned too late
And of love that slipped vigorously away the further we reached.
...and the faster we ran.

No recompense to these great and cataclysmic epiphanies
Inner chiding burns deep into muscle, into tissue, into bone.
Wriggling into yet clean spaces flush with fresh oxygen
Where blood knew to run. In spite of movement,
...we sucked those corners dry.

I follow you armed with your recanting, your reminiscence, your drool.
Your brutally loud but soft cursing, echoes yet, in my vast array
Of collected notes and regaled alchemy.
So fuck you for this drought you drove to my feet
...your weary neck- destroyed.

Wrinkled defeat revealed the more powerful lesson
Perhaps, your intent on its teaching; snipped wings mourn nothing
Taking flight by alternative means. Spurs dug-in, wreaking results
Catapulted into a reasoning that will yield to my liking
...I laud your method, yet.

O bristling soul with airtight pores, locked in desperation
We can yet linger in our atelier of candles, brandy and bruising
Fucking the memory of what we misspent.
Meet me at the precipice of all your lost hopes
...daring to twist towards reform.

I am here, lessons learned, shirking the might of bold demons
Flagrantly pumping optimism out from every limb that yet listens
Articulated in wild caution, to leap when the ledge is highest.
Born to blast blood from banes that wouldn't die
...bowing never to vernacular omission.

In ode to your sorrow, your despair, your regret
Your greyed intellect grew diamonds in this cavern of thought
Misted uncertainty fraught with resignation and defeat
Gained no foothold here; I move ever upwards, to spite the soured lost.
...fucking negatives in my wake.

Strong this day and contemplating long on You.
That steppe that stole you whispers still, one last speck of curiosity
For the wonder and potential of what drew your affection toward Me.
I linger yet in your favor and for all my days into succession
...where X marked the spot on our map.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

"I Crave News..."

Day one, much reminiscence.
I steady the sway of these trade winds
Swirling close to everything I feel.
The swapping of energies to experiences

Awesome change is living nearby
At the ready, always, elbowing up
Gritty choices, to swing in favor of the challenge.
I live to see how much more I can prevail upon.

Near me I see, the landing of sentiments made
Ingrained to my psyche in the most indelible way
The Lone Wolf lives, even if all I have left
Are his words from three years passed.

I am here, at the precipice he spoke of
Doing more than contemplating the 'where to'

"I'll leave words under your door
Under the singing moon
Near the place where your feet pass
Hidden amongst winter holes"

I am here, still, in the choked distance
Coughing up those secrets we donated
To wistful eras and nameless hounds
That roam yet in winter, in solitude- sublime.

Time yet disburses its venomous poison
Eroding the cells that replenish with night
I beckon your voice one last time
Enough to tell me, "I hear you..."

It was not too long to be of any worth.