The Toil of Words

Who knows – the toil of words
stuck so deep – in human flesh?
Even the most strenuous striving
but a strain for the secretive soul.

Light pierces the alabaster hoard
that emits no shriek or sigh,
no way no how – are you of a
hapless tick-tick-ticking time?

My eye brings its own brand,
searing with no resort to heat
to hide what no rationale can

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