Not woken to talk
scream
not born
deciding

Not as it all seems
full of conceit

owning the sky's patterns
scurrying from villiany
to death

the sprockets of time
-tic toc conspicuous-
in light and disarray

calling out
from within a dream
of conceit

to every heaven
driving us
toward our hovel

as yet undecided

27/12/04