my fingers feel like icicles
so I get on a couple more shirts
and shiver in my hoody,
hunch over the keyboard because
I know that this is the closest I can get
to you right now and maybe
just maybe you'll hear something
that reaches the real you.

in this coldness I act the mechanical
stiff and blinking robot
transferring the living thought
to the static keyboard
just trying for that every now and then
when I can reach in
find the current and move with it
for just a little while
and where I almost believe the world
is at peace and I am at peace and that
chaos is not the natural curve of things.

I'm wondering how long we'll hold out
against the tides of the world
how long you and I will last
as creatures of moonlight and essence
and if we can really hope to exist
to have a place somewhere in all this,
a hope for that hour when time is flown
away in fleeing shadows;
the day will be brighter
and I won't be sad anymore and we won't
have to encounter our fatalistic other-selves
anymore.

the dialogue of mind and self
of thought and page
drips on endlessly in me
and all I've done
is dipped in for a handful
of the soul current and drawn it out
in as much colour as I can bring forth,
in this cold silent hour,
from the original to the representation.

words, my ally and often my armour
my voice and sometimes my song-
but never quite adequate, never enough.
so I search out another language
seek a voice for it in vain hope
of what so many others have tried
and few succeeded,
blind stumble of mind-sense
trying to use the very language
that confines such a search,
low whispering out
along the depth rings of this under-hour.