The Spontaneous Death Of A Writer.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

we want to last
forever
and so we write
we want to recall and
keep it there
like some statutues or
sculptures of beauty and
solidity, yet nothing
lasts forever, and we
know this, yet we still
want to write, perhaps,
we only express what
has been subsumed, or
suppressed, something
wants to come out, something
wants to go into the open
without being known, without
being exposed, and so we
see birds in the air,
stars in the skies, moon
at night, and fish with
mouth open in the pool,
or flower blooming and
then only to die,
we keep doing this, until
there is no more meaning,
until we go on writing
for writing's sake, to keep
the hours pass by, and not
knowing how we die.