To be within but never without.
      Drifting by like drift wood shore to shore.
Knocking and ringing with scythe in hand,
      Cawing messengers, "Nevermore."
Shall specks of light shine in the night,
      be waved into the dark.
Beckoning for filling within,
         beckoning for angels to hark.
And hark they will for each hole they fill,
          but what man is an island, is still.
To be an art craved in the sky,
             no longer asking, but why can't I.