In a time without clocks,
I dial the sun,
All these sketches drawn
In the dirt.,
My grief is among them,
Drawing dark clouds.
These mechanics of night,
The stars are a whirring,
Relics and rust, sand belts of ruin,
How does one fathom such loss?
This felicity of loss,
Why pander such madness?
At the rim of hour,
The sky holds no grievance,
The orchestra mimics the fifth movement if time.
They wave to the sentries,
The stars have all vanished.
Skylarks and Seraphim
Flit the high wire.
The stone farmhouse,
Still life in winter,
A decanter of dreams,
What were we saying?
Hands move in the motion of dark clocks of ruin,
Picture framed ghosts,
Sure they dark wonder,
Adjoining shadows of dreary
Dark rain.
Cobweb hung night dreams,
Rooms full of clutter never waking the day.
Vespers hung on a string of no stars.
Trembling already, God strips me naked,
Walks with me to a river of stones.
Shadows mingle around us so mottled,
While other shadow gather,
We remember their name.
Never touching the other,
They flee to the darkness.
Unraveling clouds, they witness to others,
In hieroglyphics boxcar of rain.
Wheels turning, the dark engines rumble,
Ghost sparks and whistles,
Through hillbilly towns that have no name.