At the end of the day,
worry is not a question.
No one asks the dead-
"why?"
At the threshold of the door,
there are two concerns-
leave or live.
Rooms and the purpose
of rooms becomes a riddle-
inside of all of us,
an unfamiliar puzzle.
The night, the city,
my stretched skin
my captured soul,
my unended beginning...
becomes a room.
I dreamt I was born
in the hollow
of a wooden shell-
somehow, at the end
of the day, (incomplete)
No comments:
Post a Comment