The world is dead today. Perhaps it is only me. But I doubt it.
No money is ever enough money.
Hunger reaches further than satiety has knowledge.
We fall down.
Hoping upon the steely tendrils stretched too thin to hold us anymore.
Where is dawn’s sweet grasses where breezes carry word of feeling again?
Not here. There. Where the world waits in black like ocean’s bottom’s core.
To be cracked. Traversed. Conquered. Delivered. Then more.
No words tell that score.
Of bloomings later for loves of every age. Breath sweet again.
Cherry words. Honeyed silence.
Cries crackle and then peeter like lightning too weak to make a slash.
If there is no air to carry our voices then we are truly dead.
The dreaming head topples. It’s insides proven false.
No. Dreams of life do not life create.
And we turn. Gulf between thought and fragile bone. And know.
Man does not live by word alone.
By Word Alone
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