I’ve lost all my poetry.
Not even a little bit is left,
from when I rise to the dawn birds fall drowsy,
nothing untoward happens to me.
Not a note, not a letter do I bake,
no sweet creative reward,
no glorious smelling cake.
I have searched,
In all the smouldering poetic places
In worn out bars, in dearly loved faces,
Where the books are dusty
And the streets are misty.
But my friend is long gone from
when we spent a summer warm,
Under a promise
And a kite tail of hope.
We fought, and we fell,
And I got lost in myself.
Now, it’s hard
to accept anyone’s help.
I was young
The young long to be free.
I deserted poetry,
poetry deserted me.
The days fly in,
The days fly out,
The spinning wheel spins
and the heart goes on about
It’s business. But In the back of the room,
under my bed, a little pulse ticks
When will the vein burst?
For a life without beauty
Is a life wasted on me.
Life isn’t life.
Not without poetry.
