Shut up I've been
in the gravest dreams, even your nightmares failing to relieve.
If nightfall never came whose fault would that be
and why are you calling me son?
Where you're gone,
what I done.
No.

Really I don't know. And no, the rest will claim us as ours neither.
Walking down that other street and it was only the one,
only we were grey then.  It's another
one for silence when the
shadows herd the sheep.
Listen too.

The problem of us, of all the things we don't know
that I don't either
know how to want.
Not all money in the world could bury this soul less you say so. And then
of course I would do it, because you said so.
But no one worth has anyone else to add to this old thing.
Tattered, stitched, cared not a bit for our resilience.
Like a shadow herding the  sheep

What use a soul, without attached a being, of god's doing?
But perhaps not all believe that, or all the time.
Maybe there, on the other shore.
So still at last we all end up in the grave. Or burnt to ash.

Spilled milk and all that
that is the sad story of man. Of woman once man
allowed her to be.

We have then many houses in a variety of shared reflections.
Things we think to believe, we think to know.
Til then just give me
Just give me one match.  I will burn
the whole down, plus another quarter but only
because you asked me too.