There is he, who cannot rest,
In clover, nor in wisps of clouds;
Churning, malaise of soul’s request,
Until such soul has spoken loud.
In voices, tongues of foreign feature,
Ones he cannot hope to reign;
Accepts, within, this lonesome creature,
Such dormancy had lain.

Whet upon his palate clean,
The tastes of time surrendered,
In nibbles, wincing, soured preen,
His anguish berths distended.
Whether love or longing pine,
The sweet of either remarks,
Plain of wrapper, tan-hemp twine,
Arrive in light or dark.

Sequestered to his inner mind,
As permeating thoughts infuse
Lessons, mem’ries—some unkind,
Too precious then, to lose.
Coffers rich in frames of past,
Display, enigmatic posing;
A filling reference of faces dashed,
Betrayal:  scant exposing.

Inhaling then, the moment caustic,
With innocence feigned, unguarded,
Ingesting free the poison’s lick,
For peace he will then barter.
Release in silent ecstasy,
As his soul retracts to heal,
Birthing words refractory,
In life, such visions feel.

Remorse breeds times exhumed,
As contentment lapses hinder;
Chants thwart the breaths consumed,
Residual morsels linger.
The cryptic frets the untouched stone,
Before the sense dissolves,
In corners, there, he weeps alone,
And clings to his resolve.

There is he, who cannot rest,
In clover, nor in wisps of clouds;
Churning, malaise of soul’s request,
Until such soul has spoken loud.
In voices, tongues of foreign feature,
Ones he cannot hope to reign;
Accepts, within, this lonesome creature,
Such dormancy had lain.