When the days splinter into hours, and the minutes fly like seconds,
the sharp shards of thought impale like a stake in a heart,
clouding vision and clipping wings, those mighty dull drums
that beat with wishing winds by broken twigs, again and again.

Not glue nor nail would mend this sail, set upon ship rotten and frail,
the passage of time its only course, and the ocean floor its haunting source.
Up come the waves to dance and play in such a way to give it stay;
Against this force its bark, so porous, pulls up stark and thus turns tail.

Why does this tree, so dutifully, stay afloat with such little hope?
Already uprooted, drifting, secluded, towards cliffs of stone
why does it not drown and dry its branches with seaweed romances?
Oh confounded wood, you dead desperate will, relinquish your stances