Fold back your tears, Lunge forth your gaze Upon the silver streaks That leak from a hollow man's black eyes. There is blood, running like rivers Over wrists, that receive no kiss. There are tears That aim to fall, from somewhere so tall At the highest leaf, from the lowest grief. There will be stains Originating from one morose pain, For the fullest awareness, in everything careless. Have you seen the signs, Or have you been blind To the coming storm, The created wash of a forlorn Defeat, upon places so meek, When our lips breathe more than we can speak. We taste the wash, The oncoming procession, Of the thousandth regression. The taste of liquid silver Upon our tongues, where we can be hung Like the same silver streams Brought down from the moon's gleam.