An Imitation of Dylan Thomas?

Words so easily discarded;
The child-drawn circles in wisest sand,
The vulgar stabbing symbols
In the whore-house of wanton gifts.
Words depart us,
Those carelessly given
Stuck to wall and road,
In treaty and declaration,
In pulp and pomposity.
We give our most precious
To the graveyard
Where drizzle and ice and thunder
Return to us our silence.
The poet fears the above-the-knee utterance
Of clumsy cobbling,
Gives no slight to the unspoken speech.
O! In the vast realms of unmouthed minds
We delve a locketed history
Of tumorous lung and clotless heart
And the secrets the forelorn oak
And friendless rodent will endure.
And from these depths
Of unfurnished experience,
The word gloriously ascends
Takes seed
But remains unbirthed
But wait your tongue good sirs!
And be like I whose word is waiting,
Like the windless warrior sky
Waiting to unleash
It's deafening mutter
So the child numb to bombs still shudders
Uphill and downhill,
In raised glass and raised fist
My word stays still but tonight
(As the poet meets the wife)
No longer am I the rock beneath the thrashing sea
But strike my tongue and Ireland will quiver
On the end of our hopeless horizons.
War may beckon with belligerence
But tonight my word is voiced
Into the annals of arted time,
The syllables are loaded to shatter
My word is murder
My word is death.