The Night Of Silver Sad Locks '97 Poem by Wilkins Driver

hopeless intertwine of relay walks an interface of evermore
silly lions they feel obscure holding down the weak and poor
sinking itself into me more as it becomes part of him
till he throws it up in the day, when night comes he stays away
is it darkness that doesnt mourn an actual pace of thought
disconnected with every trace of existence, why not light candles
a buried smell of a fume is torn through and the air gets wet from the fire
and music gets made with skin a form of alteration
in dreams its all we got, fire that marks the spot
of something i dont understand but if so id probly disagree
sadly i peek but feel like understandings not real
just a product of some new organ
thats been played through our remaining phase, of language