Where will you cradle your head,
in the lap of the lover who leaves in haste,
where will the fire go then,
when fanning the soul encapsulates the desire.
The room though stays awake,
and the wood keeps burning through the night,
the watch tower is the longing
while the air disperses the shame within.
So when you feel your demons crushing,
the skull, that holds water now,
won't you remember, though fragments in memory,
and an elusive trial is a path somehow.
Such is the business of love,
the addressee becomes the addressed
but the soul is its own landlord
once free, it can push the whirlwinds outside.
In such calling, you are the crow that wakes
when, early mornings seem half moon night
in such remembrances the landlord peeps,
the agony of the tempest inside.