My words croak like the dying signal
Of a toadís final effort.
Only my words are conversational.
How are you?
Iím not dying, they say.
I wasnít asking.
Concrete prison walls lunge in at us
As you dodge my questions,
Betrothed by my lack of tactfulness.
Hail all the Gods who may know a
A passageway through this nonsense.
Fly in the first light of dawn,
The seer says.
Heed the waning moon,
Count your marbles like a loon,
Says the joker.
He tells me my words will sputter forth
Like shards of sunlight
Day after day
And if shade may obscure them one day
Freedom will permit them breath another.
And words with breath and sunlight will shine
Forever in the hearts of trees and mountains
Where none will be aware.
And there too,
They will die.