I have gathered all the flocks.
That were left. The great beyond calls
The versifiers away from home.
Wolves call to the distressed with
Simple songs. Caterers mingle amongst
The vigilant observers waiting out the tryst.
Why dispose of the daily bread we cannot
Consume when jackals call out names
Of troubadours long gone to shallow graves
Unsatisfied in content, context or style?
We cast our nets out on the sea
Once more walking toward the weary fish
Unresponsive still in their routines,
Searching for the less impure.
What gallops across the waves this way
To smooth our brow, forgetting the tide
Follows and what is left is silt,
fodder that nourishes what remains.