You will, at the shore of Dead Sea find -
A collection, of small poetry of mine;
In an orb of some garbled type of salt -
See my life, my love, my remembrances,
In a holistic star of gestalt.
But there I fare - I am but a dullard,
Whose heedless surge of blood knows only
the plumage of ephemeral things,
Should the flight of time repudiate
the sorriest breed of hopelessness -
like a shore bird, from her returning,
descending to settle again, there
besides her calcified partner, by
a fountain of drinks life vilified -
praying still
for his soul to arrive
in a desolating ... kind of trill.