There it was,
my old life, as unnotable as
days that are slipping us by.
So I’ve slept
and I’ve eaten as anyone has,
And I kept on
subduing my inner outcry,
But it just
wouldn’t die —
Yet would I?
greyscale I drew my existence in lines,
converging in one consequential point.
myself with the usual lies,
social status we overexploit,
hollow and void —
On the subway
or bus, or in line in a mall,
by you in subsumption of crowd,
I have felt
in my soul: I will stall, I shall stall,
couldn’t I just shout it even out loud,
If it was for
But I bluffed.
I am not
blaming you, for we do live as one:
am not, though by many so held,
bitter for people indulging in fun,
inner undoing is ready at hand:
explicitly swelled —
So just shout
to each other: we’re dying within!
We are rotten
inside like an underfridge peach!
For if we
cannot see that our future is thin,
Then for love
and for God we will never outreach!
Once I sat at
my desk and, beclutching my head,
I so said to
myself: “I can’t take it no more.”
of recurring to my daily bed,
I crashed up
and I went to a peopleless shore:
weight of the world, and the illness of it,
sharpness I felt as a guilt of my own:
Why can’t I
of this gloom be decidedly rid?
innocent light by my scorn overthrown?
bare as stone —
instant there was that a lightning outbroke,
near-standing tree was on fire in flame,
luminous shafts, like a blast, like a stroke:
scorching my soul! It is sick! It is lame!”
I can’t give
it a name
In my shame.
staggering thought: “I have freedom of choice.”
I can fight
with the tide if it’s flowing to hell;
I can speak
in my own unconventional voice,
common unlovingness I can dispel —
As a child I
My heart melt.
burning the souls we should nurture and keep,
warming our hands on the embers thereof,
that we crush our weakness to weep —
At such time
we are feeding insatiable stove
Of a sex without
Of a feast
Of a song
Of a strength
Of a rite
without faith —
is now; efflorescence once was —
burning the trees of our souls.