In the confusion of silence where eyes slice
the lifeline between living and
dying there's no use anyone trying
to retreat.

Some beat disorder while others
totter
and
teeter
on the edge of blind reason,
for who hears the call there's
no reason at all.

The clock on the wall sees and minutes it all,
to report to the masters of time,
in the web of my making
I am taking some time ,
going to spin me some yarn
going to drink me some wine.

And the silence can take me to make me
one of her own.