Murmurs in the daytime speck,
kaleidoscopes and swirling strings of otherness
summoning the rising of the abeyant armies
through the yearning veils into the chamber
of nestling consciousness.
Murmurs in the air,
spectacles of colours and silhouettes
dancing ‘fore the heart whose river has run
into the high seas with nothing more
than the tearing love for the Black Star
which underlies the theatre’s spotlight.
Murmurs murmuring ever
the disavowal of tales oozed from opiate crevices
of malison and true derangement.
Murmurs of the innate throne
which hand pries open the torture room of sol.
Murmurs, quiet memories of dusk –
the revelry of Soul bleeding art
into the listless ball of fleshy command.