Whispered words, these walls breathe the inanity of accusation
And a moment of gifting passes through what once was identity.
In a movement beyond truth and falsity, I can sense them in the mountains
on either side of every side.
Basking in the seething sun, this flesh conjures the infinite mind
While well-worn pillars of objectivity collapse as if blown asunder.
By the blameless pawns of poets
ecstatically exhuming treasures of forgotten grace
The in-betweens surpassing their localities this grey disease reproducing
The weapons forever unleashed, stockpiled with lies of every kind.
There is a season, a time to die
And the word games end as the clock thunders by.
And the rain sears this pain
as my streams keep running dry.