I write loose lines in cryptic notes
for words hence lost too soon on lips.
Harken thus my silent voice
through print and pen; verbose ad verbatim.
What be the measure of a man?
His silent struggle,
unsaid yet deafening,
through words unspoken behind wax masks which
melt with the flicker of his tongue?
Or is it the boisterous facade
and the ashen humour amidst cold cares
despite solemn disposition?
Alas, I am but both
yet no less than a rhetorical entity
against the calamitous catastrophe-
the harsh cacophony of careless whispers.
With the weight of worlds weathering down,
overslung on downcast wings
I seek the world through visions made in slumber
and dreams cast with open eyes.
Yet is it too far to hope
for a better day burnished
from demons passed
or the fair maiden
behind gated walls moored
on drifting clouds?
Yes, poignant hope, but hope nonetheless
lest hope jests in pittance
of a better day for the yearning fool
as mere dreams forever on the horizon.