Whispered words these walls breathe the inanity of accusation
And a moment of gifting passes through what once was identity
In a movement beyond [bad word] 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 [bad word] dry