The Tomb

The tomb I’ve been building, this fragmented studio
Where I compose, wonders of its destiny.

The voices outside are dampened like a distant stereo
Dragged out across a violent rain

& if all that is said is really to me,
What is this message that doesn’t have a human face

To come inside my place & talk like old friends do,
Warmly & over tea,

Openly & definitive.
I could never leave this project in its incoherent state;

I must enclose these walls & light a match
Or tear them down & find anew assignment.

My privacy is a huntress of its own ingenuity
But often times has long pauses

& forgets what it was doing.
Can anything be simple, can anything be free

If it struggles with its own sense of truth
& continuing ability?