Rehearsals

A lunatic has found
a touchstone, to know―
your nights to burn.

Gazing in still waters
you forget, to become complicit,
with the incoming waves.

Can you shout at me
without an uproar, sans words,
in the blind alley?

How will you remain
bounded to your consents,
unheard in echoes?

This mystique, this corridor
of authority makes you
insane. You want to go back
to the ruins.

Not judging
your sins you commit
a promise again.