Will the words ever dry out from this well of a brain
whose darkness has again been flooded by the reflections
on the windows at the eastern walls that caress nothing
but the artificial cold from a broken blower at the corner?
Because even if my eyes are dismantled, I will see in my mind
how the hair of beasts would bounce from shoulder to shoulder,
leaping in excitement to head westward where the day sleeps—
away from me and my silent ramblings.
But truly maybe, the words will dry out
when my senses have been strangled enough that
all I would ever write is only what needs pushing
into code repositories and bare metal servers;
and no more about the silliness of conversations
that happen only in rhythm and rhyme and song
and chance performances in lonely hallways
where witches cast spells on their telephones
and summon their tardy brothers.
The words will dry out.
But not tonight.