My Beat

You respond like echoes on taut, dried leather,

And my knock becomes the beat of a musician at war,

Trying to find rhythm in chaotic weather,

Doing my best to lead us ashore.

My job isn't to speak, yours isn't to share,

So we follow this pace and swallow our fears,

Until seas become valleys, valleys are hills,

Molehills are mountains, and moles must be killed!

And as the night falls, you pitch my camp,

We nod in passing, extinguish the lamp,

I trail my visions into my dreams,

And the flap of my tent raps me to sleep.