My eyes do roam outside the train,
Soaring above the sun's sinking Fame.
This travelling is soundless as sleep:
Outside the impatience of time
railways are crashing with the spoils of fresh meat.
Violence for some was an untidy Villanelle,
As landscapes unfold in the wallets of the felled.
Where is the sense of destroying what's gone before?
I ask, I storm; men made from Flint and jagged form
conspire with the shreds in their pockets.
Then the eyes get tired, frosted in their sockets,
With the voices I mourn,
singing songs to the tuned stolen wind-widths:
Aeolian and Aryan in a heaven half shorn.
Staring above the Auld rock with a wing span swift
From where I can count the folly
In a Billion stars deformed.
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