The falling pins are mild

As they have no ripples in the air

Nor any tearing through the stresses, not one struggle

To the vagaries of thought


As if a resignation is being staged

In the aisles is the expectant hourglass

Empty seats are filled with the carcasses of hope

That which has been replaced and nurtured


In the making of a play which must be about

The future we left for the making

In the streets of our growing wisdom

That which was slowly turning mildly for the awakening


Of one dream and many

That we were singing about and beating with our steps to

The joys of our creation that we only knew to follow

Rising and falling and missing and standing up


To the tides that may not be returning to the beats of dawn

Or the saplings of a ruminating soul that was in waiting

For one single moment of that doubtless glory

When mind was meeting the heart

The falling pins

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