Flaking Ink

and they wait for me
in the quiet runes,
a brilliant tapestry
of letters, like shifting dunes

that tease the desert pilgrim
who chases each great mirage
hiding worlds that slink and swim
in the shifting mind's montage

these colossi of faint dreams
half-drowned in time and memory
with life that scarcely gleams
in the present's blinding scenery

still sing the searing siren song
of woven worlds and winged words
and whisper or hiss the horrid wrong
visited on them, these grounded birds

so they wait for me,
bound in flaking ink,
for another dawn or epiphany
that they may dream, and live, and think.