The Secret Poem by Ben Partenay

I cannot tell because I do not know
but I have been to where it might lay
and walked the hands of clocks
around, till mornings stood in marching

lines. What then, what then, what then dear friend.
“This walk is long and wearisome.
This path is dark and drearisome”, you said.
A light bulb, flickers, dies, I go to bed, but

dawn will come again in fire.
Yesterday was but a coal it told me,
and I will rise and rise and go
where others go but haven’t gone

to bed. To bed, or just to die, it’s
a melancholy world with a black eye,
a chip on the shoulder, a cold streak.
An “I love you” lost in the wind