A gentle echo in the treble range
of birds that chirp, that wake his drowsy eyes,
Cold moning blows. The rolling greens entice
the journeyman, but seeing, finds it strange-
The sunlight white, and flickers, sixty hertz,
that lights his eyes but scarce refreshes him;
Horizon's edge sees twilight creeping, dim,
Breath held, aware, as though existence girds-
For what, he never knew. He wakes, again,
from out the dream-machine, his lungs still drawn,
And disconnects his brain, and turns to say,
but no-one hears. They slumber, cased in pain,
And he exhales, a sacrifice to dawn,
a whisper in the break of troubled day.