A faint whiff of the anti-sceptic about the place,

Frankincense and myrrh are wishes out of place in the 

Silence, which enrols the mind on dashes into the future,

 - dashes to the past and do not last - sutures stitched

the wound and I arrived back discomforted,

Disheveled, palpitating; but certainly not relieved

of all the burdens of the present, I perceive  

Sweats in the night; cats fight, 

hands slide over my forehead:

dispersing the perspiration,

spreading the sweat.

Yet still I do not regret the whimperings and silences of the night.

I am not one who mistakenly seeks negotiation with the furies,

But, if it means I seek in vain, so-be-it.