Leave it at that,
on a precipice
are rolling ideas,
hurt is an intangible
substance of being,
what is, is not,
the rhythm measures
to imponderables,
thoughts leaven where
the only is lonely,
a being.
Leave it at that.
The rhyme of sands on sea shores of washed-away death
is the flood of our times. They who cause it are in hollow beds, where sleep takes the informal time.
Rest is the formality of washed-away truths.
Leave it, smother dreams
with pillow and tablets.
They won’t be crushed.
Only live with amputated
arms and legs.
