On this touchstone, torch lit night,
vast painted echoes, blue and bright,
are released in the Sun’s explosion of mistrust –
long apt to ignite… sending us back to dust…
There is silence from the suffers of old,
who now come in from the dextrous cold,
forming porous, multiple, textured lines,
in hues of subtle forms and lies,
inside grand, coarse grained schist
that keeps us from burning warmth and myths,
and who hold this evil darkness over us –
ever at our resting souls.
Should we be so bold?
What does this all mean,
‘never to be cold?’
But, fiercely, we are armed still,
but, sadly, tis only with misery.
I must not wonder –
as I wonder most of all –
what the future,
has in store for us all.
And I must not venture,
as I must not stray and fall.
Is this really
Has any of it been real at all?