Wind burns in crippled silence,
its howl ekes out all our names
digging ditches of which to play a child’s game
between the dark and light
balancing a reposed spite
that is paved on the bottom of waterfalls
so melodious in the fall like the owls’ baritone calls.
Down in the world’s recesses are a violence,
its scream knows the corner of every man and dame
however it is not violence of which to blame
but those who cast shades in nocturnal shroud
who dare walk in the midst of a moral cloud
that is paved onto our conscious and each downfall
as we watch decisions cover the landscape like humane sprawl,
the horizon is known to all souls wild and tame
yet it is not inherent confusion to put in shame
as not only or our ears which hear a voice so piercing and loud;
seeing as how a part of the body’s whole is so well endowed
with the melancholy gift of woken sense.
Night rises from the ground,
the static starts to rub and makes a sound.
Orange friscalating dust
settles itself on a fragile bust
beating along with the bosom’s beat
sending chills into all wanderer’s feet
for it is they who walk
who have known in these times to not talk.
For a word may spoil
years of an imperative toil,
so may the balance of decision
be met in imminent judgement with utmost precision.