When Every Song Must Be Finally Silenced

when every song must be finally silenced returns then the well intentioned violence; muted lines the patterned landscape abhor though more space in volume, than ever world before to bear the gales down an empty empire's reigning past borrowed futures that ruling heads feigning in blood's spindrift tales: hidden days spent maiming what flood-dammed vessel clasps once were containing; what's spoken of mostly now in well-cloven riddle: would the long days of dying that we spent apart rhyme for- or against- the old rhyming art? instead, more alone as we stood there now none of us being more dead, than befouled like those whose parting rhymes we'd disavowed; of chanters who'd chanted their poetry, aloud though once we'd broken off the longboat's prow, the dancing waves came, then spun us apart, wreaking the galley's innermost heart shimmered the wood with a deep-channeled music, it sustaining no farther; cast moorings aside the besotted earth rose then, in symbolic fashion and severed the song, with symphonious tides.