What of the world
under covers
when the curtain of our
eyes conceal the stage
in the purple blue
black of the dark
infantile again
floating mysterious
womb of dream
pitching seas edge
while the giant cold contenders
buckle with weight
and heave load
and bellow foghorn
latecoming
when waking the festering mind
the stretch of
stark grey and
shifting souls
lost drawn
whose passions
have seized
long bleached
worry worn
with pits of eyes
that reflect nothing
caverns of solitude
which no exit
or entrance is hoped for
the mass costumed
in rust, stiff cloth
many in veil of black
ladies, chin to their breast
enrobed in fading silk
like wilting petals
and vitality is questionable
men, whose shoulders drop
and hands hang to
no base
scrape tough feet
and step with no
pride
the children of these
sensing the strife
whimper and squeeze
tight their eyes
sing unwrit song
and fidget with whats found
consider all imaginings
to escape the plough