I work in a dark place,
making things that will
never see the light of day,
thought casts its iron shadow
across my face,
funny that I could ever
be you, him, her, even them,
this could just be steam,
or the last drop,
until everything reverses,
or flies back -
ping!
where is your source of hope,
I hope...to hope again,
until something takes it
all away - like before,
to exist, I can hardly paint
what it is with my finger...
I'm not looking to write the
perfect poem either,
but unless I am lying to myself
or to others,
or it's just the drama of the person
who cannot push these images, any further...
then in a way - I'm willing to say that,
admit, that whatever it is,
until I hit rock bottom,
or continue to batter out
this poor logic,
until at least I know then
that I am not stupid enough,
nor should I halt the process,
stupid enough to feel good about
something that enters the head,
takes me to the sublime,
I live in a dark place,
in what most, might call light,
plenitudes of too much, maybe...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem