The faint voice of a blind snowman
echoes over winter’s bleak landscape.
Sparrows that crouch in bushes, no plan,
nowhere to be, no grand escape,
verbalize the plaintiff’s plea in vain.
There is no escaping the silent train.

Frozen is the why and it’s afterbirth,
seldom I walk down aisle’s of here,
seldom I trod calling paths of hot mirth
one might just find intoxicated with fear;
all might just be another way of the fool,
another sentiment of chasing a ghoul.

Windy voices of night’s disclosure dies
as drums of silence beat and covers
the sternum of a dead crow, no flies.
Voices, voices, voices that hovers
over tantrums, silly mortification’s end,
move like herons at beaches that bend.