Nothing moves.

Nothing moves.

Silence roves the lanes of my mind.

I long to right the tears of my eyes

the tears in my soul.

As I survey, 

You needle me to remembrance

to wond'ring what I ought to do

bound and buttressed

corralled on a plateau

fenced on a plain;

an artist untried but yearning

yearning, yearning, yearning

for the implosion of my fears

to be what the weeping speaks:

a bare-assed artist exposed to the world.