There would be one thatch,
I shall call it shelter.
If there isn’t,
Mayhem is.
We’d stumble upon a pretty sky,
In quest of mayhem.
Birds in flight,
Free in mayhem.
Feathers in rise,
Straight from lands unsought.
Soft leaves in smoked air,
Fodder to the lost winter.
Singing bells in the dead of cold,
A message from burning hearth.
Snow-white envelopes in disarray,
Brisking past suns and storms.
On a bright lilac canopy,
We play the broken pianoforte.
On a silent blue night,
Across trains of stars and seas,
There is no shelter to behold,
I am, mayhem is.
Under moonlit hours of quietude,
We saunter into mayhem.