I think.

That thought is unworthy, though.
I
can't be sure.

It's somewhere... masked
by the sable space
inside me.

To you, void,
one word:
who?
I ask that with reservation.
Don't want the answer.
I have the suspicion
that you may be dangerous.

Worthy and true...
This thought...

More likely, it's what others
see as their great deep blue;
the thing that seethes and throbs,
that sea inside them
teeming with a trillion
planktons of thought;
with sharks,
with the rare blue whale,
the orca, cunning porpoises,
sea turtles

small in the expanse.
Drops in the great bucket.

Perhaps my sea
is at night;
new moon,
clouded sky,

only the distant candles of dead men
borne on the rafts
of the ship wrecked, abandoned,
cut through the darkness like stars.
They float lonely,
greeted only
by the sound of lapping waves.
One by one,
they lift up their last candle
and die out.

Candles burn to the hilt.
The matches are used up.
Daylight never comes.

No rain water.
Nothing to catch it in, anyway.

The sharks
circle silently beneath them.
They wait
on the big wave
the rogue wave
or the storm to
dump the dead
into the sea.

The wasteland is
as barren for them
as for the silenced.
The silenced;
they thirsted.