How does one begin, grace withheld, to keep,

with thunderous nonsense floating out

on nature’s blundering step,

one’s native senses stout?

 

How does one’s song, pretentious to the end,

regale a hall of witless whim,

and never reach what ne’er was sent,

the places best it’s warming, trim?

 

How long there lies within us all,

lies within us, all tightly tethered;

a mirror’s mirror to boon, enthralls,

while hearts lay scarred and feathered?

 

How still, the talk of soundless wind,

can still the talk of sound, less still,

and draw from death a life to find,

when all but hope has had its fill?