The silent stare of the the night
Winds waltzing around with dust
Spirits singing to earthly mates
Burning in haunted lust
A fire breathing its last
In the midst of mocking ashes
A song from the womb of whiskey
Into his numbness crashes
A frown upon a forehead
The scent of evening prayers
Driving away an evil
That often pulls the chairs
The lamps that light for nobody
But for the whistling man
His family sleeps in his quarters
All of them who can
The bareness of a page
I clad with weeping ink
What will become of it
After the darkness shall sink?
A tragedy to be alive?
Or some comedy to pass away
In the middle of loving and laughing
One maddening November or May.
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