stillness
still
still stalking...
passions shivering
in a stormy wind
lost
groping through dark brooding byways
for the chief cornerstone
stalking still...
but why
why must the sprouting shoot
be wooed by the
hoes
and the weeds
by the howling throes
in the wind?
stillness stalks...
and in a precinct
of conctete whiteness
you'd think it worthwhile
to read the future
on a blank beckoning wall
and when reality
finally hits you hard
with its stone
you'd only squeeze all your pains
into a clenched fist
and beat the air with it; i intend to
halt soon enough though...
when my knuckles
have drawn enough blood...
stillness stalks
stealthily....
yet no one can deny this:
even tendrils droop
when dearth drops
the dream withers
in waiting just too long
for the morning rain.
