Inferences dragging me South
Drugged by indigenous winds
Stipend of words make due.
Meet me in the middle of nowhere
Where language means Nothing
There, where the dust lands on ragged sills
With a boom,
And the Nothing breathes regardless
Of any witness.
To whom do we pray for answers
To questions that beg release?
And how many more times
Will I promise that road that I'm coming...
To wind around its path
More naked with each step taken,
Toward a goal that leaps onward
To take intent past the reach
Of unattainability?
It's there that the Virtuoso scratches his name.
The desolate stretch of unseen mass
Widening my appetite again
Dunking the precept of all I ascertain.
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