If little meaning is lent to leaning principles spent on endless days,
what praise is worth the words thrown like seeds into fallow fields.
The mobs of unspoken absurdities take seriously the only note of dissonance played like harping wanderlust on silent guitars.
Any yet, all we have, between us, forgotten the rich weight of an eye full of color, much more honey than rye.
Bitter and sweet all the while, these tidings of times and people who pass like moments of peace and ages in turbulence.
Yet one last resort remains mortal like sin, the defiance of burning Cartesian scrolls in the face of knowing this nothingness,
seeing the darkness of man's heart,
feeling the chiding sting of his whip
and finding amongst the tattered visions of hope a fistful of poems to play with.