I once wrote some poems of stillness and silence,
Standing by rivers of reflected light:
My thoughts were on being loved and yet unloved, too —
I surrendered to the warmth of the night.
And now I feel like dying,
and if the water were still here, it would
hold me close.
I once wrote a poem while walking on gravestones,
As cobbles, rain and tear lashed down my face….
I then felt my whole world was fading
As memories jostled and fell into place.
And now I feel like dying,
and the pain of old fires still burns.
I never wrote poems when I bit my knuckles
And Death started slipping into my mouth…
But that was really a long time ago,
And I’m not writing poems now.
And though I don’t feel quite like dying,
there is something deep inside me
softly crying.
And though I don’t feel quite like dying
There is something deep inside me softly….