A faint whiff of the anti-sceptic about the place,
Frankincense and myrrh are wishes out of place in the
Silence, which enrols the mind on dashes into the future,
- dashes to the past and do not last - sutures stitched
the wound and I arrived back discomforted,
Disheveled, palpitating; but certainly not relieved
of all the burdens of the present, I perceive
Sweats in the night; cats fight,
hands slide over my forehead:
dispersing the perspiration,
spreading the sweat.
Yet still I do not regret the whimperings and silences of the night.
I am not one who mistakenly seeks negotiation with the furies,
But, if it means I seek in vain, so-be-it.