It is on your wings
That I may touch the tip
Of glory
When imagination fails
There is nothing left but yearning
I am certainly less eager
About everything
What does it matter
These days of half lived grief
Now the anything
That strips me bare is time
Embedding itself
Into what I might become
If not fulfilled I still have
Days to grow in and
Nights to be born
And myself to unravel
By JBW
A Dead Language 