Frosting The Peak, Can You, Speak Of Poem by James McLain

Speaking I speak when thus about you, It is has, always been.
And you when I to you verily and here but you have come, I never.
To many are your, my very own names, even as you, I before.
And it is to my, when many were yours, come forever.
Just only when you then, from the frost of the highest, I speak.
And rapid are the streams running out from each door.
Thus when quietness it comes before when even after it does.
And quietness moving off swiftly, passes off by my head.
The feet of the many seen leaving you full, I increase.
Hanging and I hang as I cling on to the walls, before must I fall?
Walking around this sweet land of no fences, I may never decrease.
Glaring through the open hole in the sky, when the sun as it does.
But like destiny in March the rose blooms, come as I wait, for May.
Off the head of our dead, growing up from the ground, deep inside.
Without laughter the earth moves, moving in rich throaty sound,
as the wind bends them each down, I stretch out all the more.
Too that door when you knock, as it opens to me, some one else
yours are but the groans as I cry out ever more, even less, louder.
Sitting you down as I wait, never were you seen,
when it after you came.
Was it then, the frost off the highest, I speak of, when all hope.
Then as if when,
and you frosting the peak, can you, I ask, speak to me, thereof.