Poem: Memorial Sands

Murmurs of gentle night, come rich like memorial hours, pale and flower gentle sounds, gentle-gentle hidden poet like all Knights so warn by conflicts, Hamlet blooms from lips. 
The mirage comes dark train out of the mist, music and silvery strings. Here comes the express bus, it is important to keep from laughing, for joyless eye find no objects of worth and jewels only shine and fade.
 I never see the cold winds only deaf words wondering my nights, like ill-fitted shocks, my dreams vanished as I wake, dipping the darkness. 
 My frightedned rivers are of flesh sharks move over reflected silver and blue, fleeced like sheep, or porpoises for the next auctioneers. 
 Truth in glittered rocks or perfumed blades of grass, light snowflakes on white moons of distant caged lions, shaking the bars of prison I leapt the whirling flood of ideas, murmured mouth, arrested fingers beating like clocks in need of repairs or of alluring prayer of sand.