Sleepless nights/
Coltrane is dead/
Closed minds/

Forgotten promises
sealed in flesh,
sleepwalkers,
with the bell tolling
drenched in brackish tears,
my heart grieving
from lack of ambition, poet..


flows from history's
vanishing mirror.
where, where
is the cure, poet?

(pause)


The eyes of future
ideograms glitter from
midnight constellations,
embroidering maps
of the poet's soul
to reveal infinite treasures
dressed in fire,
exhaling golden flames,
leaping renewal
quivers beyond
the moral point of view
as blue rays of light
flint the flesh
purity gazes,

dazzling our coffee shop
at the end of the universe
if only for another brief
moment in time.


SAS