Nothing speaks like distance, wreaks
The Missing ever sullenly.
It wriggles, worms and vines
Its fingers curl and find
The shivers in your heart where silver ribbons sing and rhyme.
The question swims in mire of miles,
The ‘maybe’ hangs in thought
Of heartaches formed by spinning stars
Which, creaking, buy their lot
Of lovelorn roads and Wandering loads
That crush the doubt inside.