To take a different world,

a different word

and morph the shapes of night.

To paint with a palette that will possess

the charms of the seascape

the sounds of the storms.

Hush. Listen.

Can't you hear it?

The helpless whispers of wasted wind

The wanders, the wonders, the wounded.

Waking, in the morning,

to whispers of woken resentment.

Look. Watch.

Can't you see them?

They're waiting.

Walking, step by step.

With silenced feet

and stifled breath.

You can't see them?

Am I mad?