new english ballad

Marooned in the city to hang on the bank,
Grounded in the knowledge of bad dreams,
I don't feel a pity & I don't feel I'm lank,               
I'm just bored with all the kinds of the dims.

& that's a trouble inside for it strikes through my heart
& nothing is clear up at all.
& I was trying to hide it, and wondered to find it
As an absence of  my own soul.

The tales of the tides, the tales of the castles
The breath of the storms & the whales -
                They don't
belong to the future,
Don't belong to the past  as
The presence - is the wind for  sails.

The scratching of clinkers, the patching of programs,
The fluttering of banners & flags,
The motion of fingers, the mumbling of slogans,
The pitching of the shelters & the tents…

& I'm a little bit tired of my own desire
For no one can heel the sick flame
And only the Trinity has no infinity.
Sorry,  if I you don't feel the same.

If the repentance is lingering
The material world
Is shrinking around into a singular word
& the dust of illusion lays over all things
Like the false-snow integument
Upon the dead wings

& no more trying to fly
No more trying to shine
& only silent cry is congealing inside
Up to the end of this ridiculous song
Infinitive pronoun always asking what's on.