Journeys

A dream has died,
buried
beneath the chime
of travelling winds.

I want to sleep.
After all, nothing awaits me
Nothing moves
Nothing revolts
Anymore

The journey of thousand porous nights
emerges from the heathen
eyes of barren sleep.
Tip toed. Quiet.
Quivering shadows flood my tranquil.

The incoherent gaze of my eyes
twists distance,
But only a broken dusk mingles
in tedious lament to
the mourning, wintering sky
cold blue and bleeding.

In the colorless, vapid solitude
of dawns,
nothing sails me to you
except that tidal river
that left murky shallow pools
around summer.