On Collecting Words

What use is time if all is cleared away
the onward push into decreasing space
with no hope of sonic boom or vapour trail;
the tapestry unravels, the cords unwind;
a great unlevened bread is made
which none can taste nor savour
while mighty hearts have beat the blues
with words and chords and dances
and others with aloof and cold denial
no hopes nor fears but swords and will
what separates the done from death
the deed from mere posturing if fickle memory
parades a shadow-play of lies into the cave?
Though poets be banned from our True Republic
the dialogue continues between truth and death
for something must remain, if only silence.

CJHB 15th September 2009.