It was only a matter of time. Darkness fell, and I saw clearly. Words spoke me, and I listened; the darkness glowed, revealing. If you're quiet they speak to you, but not out loud. Stones stone, and air breathes. You don't learn anything from seeking. Wait, I tell you. Wait.
Month: October 2020
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Heat still thick at noon, but late cicadas gone. Now, emerald air hums. Could you tell, then, that summer was ending when the flowers all still bloomed?
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Wasting good sadness, to weep for a lost world you hated anyway. Save your tears for what illuminates and sucks dry the mystery: Being.
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Today's last poem - but that isn't really true. They spread, like bamboo. Get thee behind me! I turn and see only the words on the next page.
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Myrtle blooms in drifts surround gnarled trunks, and I wonder - next year, too? Sit by the river to watch the fish ripple - but mourn their freedom. A stiffer wind might descend into the valley. Will I notice it?
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Some nights I hear the suggestion of voices, but none say anything. Catatonia, not sleep. Held out above the abyss of language.
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Writing poetry is embarrassing. You don't think so? You're a fool. There is no one in whom sadness in endemic; tears are too common. Language speaks, not you. Perception, you say, mirrors the world. Idiot.
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Words flitter, and fear glides silent beneath a still, limpid pool of light. When sanity hangs by a single shining thread, cut it. Then you'll see.
The Burnout Socialite 