Draw-back

The book lays still in counted pages
the turning hands are also there
those to be seen patiently waiting
but reluctant eyes choose not to stare

as vespers cuddle the rippled brine
driving turtles away from shore
pilgrims stay aloof the blood-shed
to carve the path of the winning God

shooting dreams to disintegration
grinded tombs of somewhen hopes
heads are bending kind of awkward
driven by the tight lashed ropes

saviors buy a disdained moon for nickles
building refugee huts on the bright side
pines burst their juice in tears
cause humans can’t recall to cry

tongues rest numb inside their hollows
since now words are made of stone
shadows reckon among the threshold
to cloak the ones that must be shown