For my mind is dry and parables, I no longer know.

I sought this night for words of which to write,

for the gypsy that whispers to me, has taken her flight.

Hot, dry, and barren is this no mans land,

A place where parchment, is white as deserts sand.

void and empty of words, is this lonely plain.

For I crawl through this synopsis in vulgar disdain.

Though shelter it is that I now seek,

I find, that I…I…I am much too weak.

I fear that with this lone and worthless line,

That the vultures that circle the palace of culture,

Will at last, on wordless bones…dine.