The evening mind to futures thinks,
Holds with all thick impotencies,
This terse virulent seed, the hope, the whim,
The promises of all life's trundling beams-
Alas, in them are direst creaks,
But death for truer hopes abloom.

The ever-whirr arises from the grave of sound,
Unfathoming from every plug,
Dripping off the hooks of sprawling wire,
Pervading like the hollow of a bad dream,
In unwilled passing fades to a subtle hiss.

I wish to write a nonsense poem,
For I've reasoned through the day,
I've straightened out spaghetti code,
And wrinkled up my brain,

So now I shall describe the feeling,
Of misstepping on the stairs,
When all is dark and the well falls short,
A step from what you thought before,

Oh tumble up and over yonder,
Your sole stomps down and shin asunder,
At least it feels so in the night,
You lay there in a dazzled plight,

This misstep of an upward fall,
This hubris shattered as the glass,
This clattered mirror of the world,
That holds just one step many in your eyes.

A joy to look,
On brief English air,
That rolls on by,
In grey greens and browns,
The curt nods of trees,
The neat standing grass,
The wizened oaks that grin:
"Moornin'"
And holler from a friendlier world.

Sore throat,
Feels like soaring dragons come to perch,
On my tongue and slivering down,
Wisps of flame,
And coldest pain,
Paling tunes to mock the sick days,
Even then the pale army marches,
Devouring virus and bacteria alike,
Sending protein missiles and disarming toxins,
One day such a thing shall pass,
For now he watches with love,
On this pale army of his.