• Mind's fingertips are devil red
    The acrid burning; blood in air
    The tears are singing, or are they singeing?
    Too lost, forgotten, the morrow nil.

    The voices (once soft, sweet glimmerings)
    Pulsate-Rampage-Carry on
    Like nails begging to slice skin
    The hammer's there; To let it run?


    I once knew the sweet surrender
    To feel the breeze as pasts let go
    Full sails have caught and bended upon this
    Will. Strong enough to go on?