Surely there are things unsaid,
That could make up your mind,
Yet I’m but a poet filled with dread,
While you trodden thorough my time.

That open space that lights all up,
When perishes the sleep,
For longer is the wait prolonged,
And wronged the frights not spilled.

A bowl of dust I keep on edge,
That ash nor flames can mend,
Indulge me with this last regret,
Of things I’ve known to end.

You blatant throb through all of me,
Some soul-searching in between,
So high the wall I’ve built to dream…