Its not the pain,the banality of age
Or whether weather holds sway over mind and thought,
Nor is it wise to cheat your today by sad regrets
On looking back at all your yesterdays that wept lost hours,days,weeks
Years ,laboring under the yellow eye of many
Midnight moons, wading through the ebb and flow,darkness/moonshine
In the clutches of some exaggerated sense of erratic genius. There
Must be thousands like me stowed away in silence
Night after night,-like dedicated monks at vespers- hunched
Over virgin paper trawling up words to attached to coherent
Sentences from personal failures or ambitious imaginations
In the hope of striking the immortal poem,the perfect line that
May hold your name in history. What really matters most is to stretch
Your pain and blackness to a higher degree of light, spilling
Clear,clean, unsoiled words into the night.
Darkness is long,high and endless, pain is fleeting as life itself
Whispering a language of its own, and remembered memories
Long distance , spreading forgetfulness. If we could eat the clouds,sun
Moon and stars and drank all the oceans we would be
A forever day in never-ending conspiracy with the seasons...
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