Chained to the dust
With my own lock and key
I was standing by the tide;
Remembering the sea
I dream of dry oceans
And suckling on burnt milk
From the seeds long sowed
Upon the shores of homeless towns
Waiting to flower
Once more
At the sunrise
There is steel in my eyes
And the world with its tuning fork lies
Asking me to mourn along
Knows nothing
Of that cold, hard touch
For I am no maker nor master
But only a thinking man
One step away from disaster
I live my life
Through those who lived before me
And triumphed,
For mine are eggshell victories
Inchoate brush strokes of the blind
Left behind, listening to the faceless sounds
Dreamt by dead branches and wayside stones
Alone in their darkness
Wherein all ashes intone
The pleasure of being burned alive
Only to never feel, another touch of life.
They who question themselves
Do not answer to others
And they who answer to all
Cannot question on their own
Thus we human stray
Mephistopheles now led by Faust
Laying markers on the way
Though oneself being as lost
I dream of a man dreaming:
Only to awake and find
A mirror in my hand
I go searching on a deserted street
A river breathing and hissing
Like milk from melted moon
But only the shadows are awake
Drowning in silver lake
That Sfumato lagoon
Reflecting the roots of paradise
A silence more verbose
Than that of a breathing statue;
Standing one step less of the precipice
Yet hovering over the horizon
Wingless, blind to the bottom
Of an everlasting yawn that
Morpheus divined in a dream while
Walking on a deserted street
With a burning candle in high noon
In search of river breathing and hissing
Like milk from melted moon
