winds a whirl of words.
the muddled voice is broken
in the space which separates
the waking world from sleep.
We seldom speak so deeply anymore
about the passions
which rouse us to fulfillment,
passions dark and turbulent
like turbines in rain.
The cathedral of my brain
is stained with heathen shadows,
warped and shifting.
These days, I see fewer and fewer reasons
to adorn my calendar with names.
I was swept away in shameless stupor,
and the rhythm proved too much to take.
Now, I stake my reputation to a furnace
where I deposit old distractions,
empty thoughts without furnishings.
The sky is gray and vanishing.
Six cradles of stolen virtues
hang haphazardly from the ceiling.
I mark the feeling with a V:
a V for verity,
a V for vilified,
a V for vast.