inequalities

remember everything, or nothing, same;
the arms we cross, we write our names,
the sands we tread have blown away,
and all the while whistles tunes
of marigold and dry skin gray.

call to me, i'm drawn to truth,
spoken by an anointed fool.
i've come to listen to wasted words,
awash in me the cries of birds;
in indecision animate
the unfolding fire of endless shame.

there we come to huddle 'gainst
one another's sagging breast,
but i cannot hear the wind for whispers.
between your breaths, the silence whimpers.
and then i'll come quite questioning
the realities that you've portrayed.
and all the more the empty roar,
the tug of better sense, perhaps.
of course, of course, it's all for naught;
the consequence of happenchance.