Drum all hollow, beaten. Booming
Changes as the skin is stretched
Upon a rounded coppered frame;
And the temporal drummer's game
Is run as muffled sticks are fetched
To signal hope is looming.

Afterthoughts are echoes, sneaking
Gently quiet into past;
Catalogued upon the shelves
Of the archives of ourselves.
Now the question comes at last:
A respite to our seeking?

Wondrous rhythms throb contending
With a drone of twisted doubt
Conditioned by the acrid years
That reinforce the latent fears...
Enough! Let paranoia's rout
Destroy all mute pretending.

No one's heard our silent screaming
Of desire -- yet we've not lost
Love's tempo and impassioned tune.
The drummer's pulsing beat says soon
This saddened time can last be crossed:
Let our lives surpass our dreaming.