The paper and pen has

The paper and pen has become 

a winding clock of solittude 

of rhythm and rime. Then 

the penny drops and the tempo comes into full speed

understanding the dimmensons of past and presence 

where in cockpits brothers lie 

and the blood seeps in sewers for my kinfolks to bathe in 

and the undertsanding ranges. The pitterpatter 

of raindrops and gloomy days 

wither and seethe and then die in dusks as   

the rich and poor are no longer a voice but 

a continuous growl where a mixture of rule 

and survival make it known the weary will wither 

under a nonheroic glow.