The blind pilot
of silent mouths
and minds so loud,
that never listen
but mutter angrily.
Like clouds of blood
Raining tears
of thought, and drought
is longed for.
But yearning means little
to the deaf that cup their ears
to hear,
but do not listen.
For words like winds
float formlessly and quiet,
before their seeking hearts
grope and grovel,
and fail,
losing hope.
Falling into fires
that burn in the heavens
that kindle in our souls.
So sadly,
as memory fades.