No quarrels
To drown the mundane
The way of this world
Is empty, deliberate and slow

And the mind is forced to forage
For an evil to vanquish
To slave until silence
Is the victor once more

But there are no shadows
Beneath honest summer rays
No sparks, to encourage the mind
To wander, plunder and reap

There is no pulse
Only rails of black
Where you once unfurled
With poise and grace

Every word flatlines
Until spoiled
With immeasurable dark