1
Abrasive sounds, scorching wind
lead me not through the voices
for my offer I will not rescind
no matter, what are, your choices.
2
Creatures slowly turning, the night
slow decay permitted to go by
a disease scared on its flight
cures make illnesses die.
3
Furious wind, in cholera engulfed
bring me the dying silver star
so that this enigma is resolved
and I can go on to live with this scar.
4
Precipice halt your long echoes
needed they're not tonight
I need to hear the voice of those
who cannot speak their plight.
A place to contemplate beyond that which is desired, warranted, wished upon, and sometimes forgotten.
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