Oh wind with your mighty fists,
who speaks of frozenness;
who sleeps inside her throat,
the singer's voice melts the iron
inside my bones,
melts it into a river of faces,
long ago.

Oh wind who whispers broken syllables
through young-green leaves,
weaving at unseen stars:
poets of the past, hanging bright
in their next season;
a slow waltz inside a galactic dream,
or perhaps a plot of demons.

and like the frenzy of madmen
you've been stabbing it
and stabbing it
and stabbing
yet nothing dies
directly related to your fury
the world does not
desecrate itself
anywhere near
how a whore does
when
no matter how she tries
she will never be
that small girl with
her hand in her mother's
the smile on her face
and the promises of
bigger things

Should you wander out
amidst nights' "twilight time",
it can end up going one of two ways;

if you fail to notice,
which would be a major crime;
youll have to wait, and see how the evening...plays.

Should you venture into
this "twilight force",
I can't emphasize this, nearly enough;

your existence will completely change,
and that's just "par for the course";
those, are your demons in the rough!

Tick - tock,
Sounds the dying hands,
Like bells that toll rife,
In ripened, chilly air,
And hands that stoop to fell
The seasons weary run.

Dust and dirt and minds,
And broken things reply
The token sounds:

Tock-tick-tock...

Again, again, in ceaseless
Strains chorused
From every waking yawn,
Till the lull of sleep approaches
Once again...

Decreed forever to make us dance,
Like foolish puppets,
Helpless brothers;
Hapless beings of chance,
Cousins of a controlled race.