known quantity bereft of quality;
a name of little beyond its letters...

at that tender age when one still believed
openly bleeding wounds make for devotion...

Cry we all toward places unnamed
Rise above the crested hills...

That hamlet where mum's lineage dwells,
Ancestral ruins, where silence swells...

A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep...

Prick up your dulled ears, be brave;
Hear the dislodged dirt flying...

candle in the window
for the son of a widow...

you are the schwa
of public domain...