Let old men tell of fables, I'm listening.

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I sit at my desk chewing meddling sinews
that shoot off from the fissures of my bearded brain,
struggling to keep afloat on the waters of memory
quickly, before I drown into the abysmal depths

that hold derelict shipments of this reality.
One for one moment, there is between you and I
a pen, a note and a cup of sustenance
Drink on it, it will leave me with a page

etched with the wanderings of Us, of Song, of Dance
the loose-ends of which are tendered and into the canons of War