In any mirrored face
the homeless sees nothing shuffling
from his favorite stores
At night they feel their wild
canine teeth

Words surfacing
uncollected in fragments and scratches
besde underdeveloped manors
in the city's growing mold
and buildings separated by dust like a ream of books
on the trail to the open west

Noise clock, sharp chiming
and unbearable
soot blackness of perpetual rain
pulsing faintly in a palsied
flow of the oppressive
heats and sounds

My sister is a forgotten composer of rebellion
given only the courage
to think her words will merely be
a droning
cello's moans
and preludes unsettled
and old

Without authority
someone might hear her
centuries too late
when few will give her a wait or wax cylinder
of words no better than it's tremorless
indentations unseen by the eyes and ears

The days of crystalized quartz
and effeminate handshakes and kisses
vacant gestures and the beautiful
view of the destitue on a warm
spring morning in the park

A gale tramples over fallen doors,
And desperate faces cling to a quivering flame, yet
No wall can reach their shadows.

I stand there  shuddering with each lash
from the ice beyond the hearth,
A slow trickle from its toil dyeing the rubble at our feet. But still
No heads turns to face the dark.

I only know every spark withers and dies as it drifts from our circle, though the brightest voyage furthest into the night.
Looking beyond I am neither trapped nor free, but destitue
It is not resolve, courage, or despair that now turn me; I am lulled and must wake.

All thoughts deceive. Thoughts of men inspired, of gods deranged, echo in me,
And which is worse I do not know.

So tonight I will follow the sparks into gale,
Let the lash scour my ears of every voice,
And hope no man foolish enough to follow.