Whispered words these walls breathe the inanity of accusation
And a moment of gifting passes through what once was identity
In a movement beyond truth 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 keep running dry