Mysterious, indeed
why voids
walnut-shaped
appear in men’s souls
though their bodies still thrive;
the specter of Death
stays stoutly
beyond the veil
shuffling through
days made
months made
years, where joy
and sorrow both flow
like red and white
during an early autumn
vineyard wedding
vacuities remains
and only the most honest
of men know
from whence they came.
Unspoken Politics 