The quiet eyes search the globe of tarnished weathervains,
calypsoing into the fall patterns of afterthought,
carousing the inert slopes of the maidens’ valley,
the ever sought realm of tenseness that forces the blood
to follow the veins in a heartless society of somber misunderstanding.
The result of a mixup might be the outcome of a moment’s joy.
To watch the candles light the surefire straggler, shown the way,
the roughhewn solid oak banister that guides the stair to the rooms atop,
yet slick as powder, can lead a soulless caravan to attics of forgotten and cast free thoughts.
Those are my entitles, real as now, but quiet, sleeping only to awake in my black
turbulent triangle of transcendence. – Sinz