Sunday, January 21
faces beckon, people threaten,
in the dim lights of a foreign land.
not before nightfall would there
exist, the touch of a soothing hand.
the soul aches as throat and heart
are dry as desert sand,
awash with the drops of rain,
this resolve, unwilling to bend.
a hundreth and first night
adrift across rough seas.
stranded in waves coded so by
loss and entrophy.
in this deep and loud silence the wanderer finds
himself in a grotesque embrace.
seawards he could not gaze and
as he died i took his place.
to sit, duck, as raging storms ablaze.
to await the truth that so far never came.
to harbour hopes of the harbour,
only to hold back a cry so tame.
to huddle close in this group of one,
and pray, let my passing be quick!
to linger as the harsh hammer of kismet
descends, delievers its verdict;
(to hear the words from you so dear,
will you or will you not be near.)