On and on I wax and wane to attain a spotless moon
And they lied who say youth’s carefree.
My tangled threads may unknot but cannot smoothen the creases
On the brow of time, the map of my mind.
The world’s was too wide to hold a purgatory, so Dante journeyed,
And I wander on, to wash the wound of words.
My hapless words were yelping dogs, yet called the bitches bite, now
Voices float up on merciless shores like the dead the tide throws.
The wanderer did find wayfarer, but the way wound away,
The tongue did try to utter but truth had turned astray.
So like an ascetic’s white I donned wordlessness
And often dreamt of colour to paint blank leaves.
Till nauseous pain fought and summoned this pen back
Where to? I know not, perhaps another wordless way.