Flags out of feathers,
I keep asking the whethers,
And I’m all dressed in leathers
Under the weathers.
Words without bones,
Not written in stones,
Are covers for clones
And easy on tones.
Stars in the dark,
They forgot how to spark.
In this soup of quark,
I’m sailing the ark.
I’d turn my wine in water,
And turn my tears laughter,
And while conversing with myself,
I’d like to think that I can help.
But words are means and means are middle,
And who but me can solve this riddle?
I’d like to think, if need arises,
My spirit haunts a thousand houses.
I pick my words
To wound the swords.
Painful is nothing,
There’s dust on everything.