a loop in upper atmosphere today
with a model's figure of grass
to postpone his next canvass

this desire to retouch in a wanton lapse
his brush fitted in a cloud
and he steamed aloud  

a bubble's glow in a tip of the pen
to exclaim foment
as shape blew doctrinaire
with clasps of tarter  
where his strokes were ardor
that trend would enhance with finale
while he deeply supplanted the soul

I am surrounded by a desolate landscape
Atop a tower of varying height
In a world bereft of power
No warmth, no cold
To feel in the sun's lake.

I stand atop a tower
Surrounded by a distance limited
No sound
No movement,
And yet
The rush of wind
Resounding in my mind.

I stand atop a tower
My body floating on its roof's midst
I stand atop a tower
Of height appearing small
And yet
I cannot bring myself to leap.

What is it that I want?
Staying atop this tower
What is it that I want?
Feeling naught
But the rampant silence
What is it that I want?
Is that a question I even want to answer?