soft humming tongues

there is no
gift of the ages,
no promise of respite
in the flowing madness.

synchronicity is beyond
the ebb
between the here and now
just out of sight
and it is made of
when, where, and how.

there is no
soft angel voices
whispering mothers
names.

the down
down
      down
darkness
of it all
pandering to
questioning gazes.
no sages
no saints
no devils
in bright red paint
laughing at the tears
of the poor pauper's fear.

and the rhythm magnetic
driving beats
of insanity
through the streets
linger and leer
but are too faint to hear.

so deaf ears play
on the falling
of day
into nights
so bright
they drive the
madness away.