Our Number

I wonder, I wonder

If in the depths of our slumber,

We ever dream to cease our ceaseless number.

Perhaps our questions are naught but answers,

Perhaps answers are naught but questions,

Our pride is pricked and bloodied by words unsaid,

For I ceaselessly wonder,

Am I among the masses of silent number?

11 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

When the muses leave, what is left but silence? The abysmal comfort, the unending sleep- when the muse leaves where I go to find it? With what rapture, what song- may I sing now in the day that lasts

The wanderer, the seeker All are all the weaker For they fail to see the world’s telling brand The simple sound of one hand….

I am scratched and itched, and old and young; I am the red greened apples, And love high-strung. There can be no words that pump as the heart does; Flesh and Fire, The forge of God's young.