Sifted like wheat, my mind
numbs down needles prickling
soft gray flesh to white
background noise –
soft wails of
creatures
creation
bereft.
Can you hear them?
The awful mass
of truth pulls
every pleasant
thing under
its inky cloak,
folds into itself,
swallows itself:
a perfect selfish
singularity,
the truth.
Cold guilt for acts
that are not sins –
barring the unthinkable:
that fair is foul,
foul fair,
and I really am
alone.
The valley of the shadow
of the already done –
I have walked this way before,
but it has no fellowship
with me.
It does not even live
in memory.
Odd that the loathsome
and most accurate truths –
about how we really are,
about how we are together,
about our better angels –
must be forgotten.
They leave monuments, of course –
the muteness of snow,
the bright-colored, bold-faced
suicides of leaves,
the dirge drone of rain
like an ominous race memory,
streams that trickle
slowly into stagnant pools,
bald hills, carnivore plants.
But we fight faithful facts
as if they’d ever be
untrue at our
command.
I do so love your poetry…it always manages to take me somewhere….deeper…making me identify with it and contemplate my own state of mind…poetry should do that you know.
Thank you very kindly.