A Time for Dreaming

There was a time for dreaming
and the hope of order.
That has gone by.
The air is boiling,
but the poet is quiet.
There is a scum on his well
and he is drowning.
He can’t make water, air
and cannot even scream.
The poet hated noise,
but silence even more.
It is too late.
Drowning, he gulps the thickness
and chokes on the last of fear
– bitter.
The poet wishes he had gone mad with van Gogh.