What shall become
of the empty seconds of waiting?
Those moments your name
sits foolishly on my lips,
when forests turn to desert,
and spring finds the Tundra
waiting for the moment
to spill secrets into eternity,
what shall become?
How shall we see
in the hours between the fantasies?
Those moments the visions
dance madly within the mind’s eye,
when floods of grey and pink
lay waste to civilization and plans,
desperate for the clarity of blindness
that nullifies such desires,
how shall we see?
Might we lay sadly,
in comforting melancholy,
upon flesh freed
from the reproach of disgust?
Of words uttered,
from ancient tongues,
setting upon us?
Should we not be tied down
that madness does not overcome us
and we flee to homes
that never existed?
Could we not be lonely
without approval,
without questions,
in longing
for the clarion call?