Everything stops. If only.
As you jolt along in the executioner’s cart
you’re like one under the mud, you say nothing.
Mossback, you’ve watched so many daylights fade

to hope alone.
I wish I knew your thoughts.
You have no responsibility for the way that you’ve been injured.
You carry your own bags.

Good friends attempted murdered,
eggs laid in sand banks looted,
round white shells broken open, gobbled, dropped.
Why so comfortable with catastrophe?

Not mine. Not mine yet.
However long the darkness
it holds the music of what loves to happen,
insistent, indestructible, inhuman.

From Spirit Engine