I’ve become the unfeeling husk
The driftwood in rot
Awash, by rivers of grime

Sickly
Never lending a word
For his misty-eyed kin
For a mother
And her prayer-laden songs

I’ve become the immobile shell
Ever-anchored to prose
To the words of bygone saints

I dream
In their ebb and flow
To mirror their depths
From my shroud
Of sheer neglect

Day
By feckless day
The silence I keep
Shall breed the sorrows
I’ll surely reap