Among the hollow, steep and dark,
Some harrowing croon that calls
In the night of a forlorn moon.
The waves are jaded and the tides
Are low, beckoning in a wild shrill.
Across salt-air in the summer and
Lanterns in an autumn harvest, a
Brittle wind follows the ocean and loosens
The sails for another storm in winter.
As dusted grains of sand fall short,
Shards of broken glass are washed ashore
Onto banks of mildew wood and quiet crows.
Like foothills of moss and bated stone,
Wings of stained feathers flock to the sea.
From sunlit harbors and harrowing docks,
A sharpened wit brings irony in the forthcoming
Solitude, your uncanny mind unmoored upon
Gazing at lanterns along some barren pathways.
Beneath your smoldering glance, a passerby shouts,
Running wild with the wind as you breathe in the smoke.
The passerby lays beside you on that moonlit path,
Blades of grass sharpened like a net upon the rocks
In those silent, yearning hours upon the woven foothills.