[Written to: Song of Sheherazade ]
Wind whips whispering want
each step a sip of winters wailing
and springs unfortunate delay.
Sky dangerously dark above
earth languidly unaware of soles
pressed defiantly deep upon it
carry one, who,
wrapped in weary wandering,
a wisp waging war against
gods who no longer speak
and siren songs no longer singing,
walks towards the edge of possibility
seeking a thing desired yet un-obtained.
Lo, thirst for rain does not grant it
nor retching render a ransom of hunger’s despair.
Dust for tears strangle sound
to subjugate doubt with oppression and fear!
All here gnash and gape and claw
at the heart of the feet who
What is this madness?
Who, in a seeming sea of uncelebrated hubris,
rages yet again in this, an immortal and hopeless, quest?
A reply slips free
“’tis the quest of the living
the survival of a dream.”