some
modern engine hums
something ancient,
something
waiting
to be heard,
not words,
not near so fickle,
perhaps
a tune,
a long lost tonic tome,
alone,
and omnipresent
all restive in
restlessness

all echoes of
was,
while future struggles
with cause
undeniable, but
still
uncertain,
purchased in purpose,
only
forgotten in all the
how,
out loud and
internal,
the fervent, fertile
futility,
the joyous misery named
existence,
all to ever be
desired,
that destiny set towards
dark
retirement.