Dawn to dawn
in the shrine of loneliness,
the involuntary prison of choice:
where mantras spawn
in the silence of thy voice
when thy subsistence is on hold.
Where, in order to come out of the incarceration
thou have to sell thy heart of gold,
have to sing the words, no more thy song
have to inhume unsung words
from thy torn heart sprung,
thing that are capped under thy tongue,
that
thou cannot say,
thou have to melt in your soul,
with thy gold,
have to pay away,
have to swap
to stay,
drop by drop,
day
after day.
