What rhyme rises from the mind of the mute
What song from a silent fate that sweeps,
What peace dares dream in this dispute,
All what our peace is, is asleep.
I will not give my pain one more ode
To mock me with, as he watches me dying-
Slowly, sly and creeping fate bestowed
Upon our oracles of fleeting and flying.
A wordless poem with no sound is due
The death of the poetry, death of the poet
The folding of the roads beneath you
The dream reaped long before you sow it.
What can words ordain that silence can't,
If hope lays his neck bare to despair,
What can life obtain that my death can't,
If even for a death wish I seized to care.
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