perhaps

ear up hear the muffled men
groan in molten monotone
their brushed throats roar rust-iron
and the mad world rocks

oh you rapture-child you won’t
know how to tune that startled
shiver of icy danger
that strips bare the heart

dying star outstretched alone
unhooked by runic shadows
desperate to hide your
night-saddened crying

pale-faced child tune out all sounds
sit in the solemn sky-stain
and tell us perhaps a tale
of future silence