I am sad like eyes closed.
What touches my hands does not
belong there but slides away-
rain against the glass.
Don't we slip away with it?
I've loved like spiders
spinning webs of silver scar;
their world all feathered moths
and flies and sun. Is there
a single strand of darkness?
When I sleep like sinking fog
knowing stars are light imposters
a thousand years before tomorrow
burning for a dreamer's sight-
who is cruel enough to tell us?
1 comment:
I have re-read this poem several times, and each time, I glean something else from it. It brings about a certain mood in me that I remember from my black-clothed melancholic years.
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