i.
  this is where all wars
  are born.
     when the mind starts
  naming its possessions
  as the heart is
  silent with its
  sullen iterations.

  this is where all
  the forgotten revel
  in the song breaking against
  the premises of remembering,
  or say,
    dream's erratic fabulation.
  this is where you lose
  name and touch and relevance
  to things. this is where
  around me, all the mouths
  shrill in commune and i am
  left baffled in cottonmouth
      reticence.

ii.
   it starts with a syllable's
   ebb as it tries to paint
   in the canvas a face,
   or a mulling over.
   or the reel around
       the thorny fountain of
   desperations and youthfulness
     dried out in speckles of
   river-run laughter.
   there is only a candle there
  but the light splatters everywhere like true blood of
    murdered flowers on walls
  thick without sensations.
it begins when the heron
   of your coming trills on
  the ganglion - cathedrals start
  a bell and the resounding of it,
  the shattering of it,
      the music of it!

iii.
     death of a man is the
   life of another, yet shy in
  its genesis, brave in the exodus.
this will soon grow
     arms
         and feet and will lunge
  out of each pained window and
    then sleep in musical beds
  oblivious of a body's retreat.
   and from whence it started,
  it shall end here,
it will blow out the candles here,
sometimes sing to itself here,
    and perhaps pass this on
from here to another's,
     without promise.