Sometimes I feel like writing; I don't claim that what I write is good,
but I like reading what I have written.
oct-28
Tue Oct 28 03:30:07 EST 2003
if feelings are felt, they must be confessed
in shadows of ink on paper pen-pressed
while life is still lived and feelings are felt
those feelings unwritten burn sorrows of hell
letters of fire in words of rain,
essays of horrors and volumes of pain
better projected, to paper revealed
than suffering scars of feelings field
when feelings rest, their embers ashes,
will writing slow to less frequent flashes
returning to their silent home
shrunken, bent, in fleshly tomes
will age so die, will cries grow quiet?
in awesome absence and giant silence?
for though the earth would be my bed
and tremors quiet, light as lead
a life diffused, refracted, bent
cannot so suffer silent death