Alive are voices simmering
in layers marred in surreality.
Murmuring waters boil over,
their steam gushing expressions
and words of rising forth by
slipping past.
Far stretching are these glances
far beyond Gehen, still further.
As phantoms cull latticework
depictions of death to resurrect
old rhythms fallen to stupor.
In veinous fear a dulled flow
guides us out to spring and each
season beyond, a waking dream
to stop and scream
out at dawn.
Alive are voices speaking
in layers capturing reality.
Settling silences dig with avarice
their embrace a consequence
of coincidence finding purpose
in everything.
