The writing's on the wall.
In a language
I do not know.
Syllables, that mean
as much as the
gentle breeze.
That shake the
autumn leafs.
Time's slow pace
will show;
what is yet
to undermine
my beliefs.

While the word on the street
is incomplete and
ever-changing.
The minds eye's blind;
The tongue’s in knots of
twisted whispered
sleeping words.