My silence is cosmic and my peace is the morning I am the mountain and its road I am the unseen envy of the unseen man My breath is rare and my hands are poets You could imagine the Holy night and its shedding When all the energy has gone and the streets are swept, I am life and death and home
I was told I’m not at peace of all things me, not co-existing with the sleeping streets every night while you were resting and seeking them in dreams which you chase away
Not at peace with the trenches I cross every day that I helped dig or the burrowing into the embraceless black like a wandering wraith The bowl of pause I volitiously jumped in