Talking in tongues,
The train of thought
Running in loops
Breathless lungs
Exhale, air caught
Head droops

Do I dare disturb the universe?
I do not think that they will see me.
I have measured my life in coffee spoons
And hollow men,
But with these deliberate disguises
I should be glad of another death,
To purge the sores on innocent tongues,
This waiting is wanting!
Your eyes have their silence, true
But so do dying stars.
There is no rest for a lost boy,
Who searches for love
That was cast to the sea

Open the doors and purge
The stream of bleary people
A flood, pressing for escape
The eternal escape
And fighting the belated urge
To run

Soft, the night,
As liquid air heals
The ravages of day
The red sun burns
And lights the tiresome path,
But rest now, my darling
Under the gentle wrap of night
Water for the weary
Sleep, my darling, sleep

The brontide words
Of a wounded man
Echo still,
Silent
From when they began
In this place.
...
A voice, not his!
But an Injured man anew
Casting the echoes back
To the stranded,
The echoes remain
Repeated in a new voice
From another wounded man
With brontide dreams

Thick white clouds
Drown rolling mountains;
Gone before the first cold fingers
Can touch the wind-whipped water