I am tired of the inky ax-wound,
tired of the expected dawning,
tired of the simpering
sawmill that grinds my name.

Yet behind the light
the unknown beckons
from a growing depth,
a source-full fountain
and a traveler's stripe of records.

Mountains carved by ice
and fiery thuds
bread begging for salt
and catastrophic clearings,
two sets of hands on a spreading drum
sky's pinned
cake frosting atlas.