Poetry feels sometimes like an expiation
And yet with words of the near-past
I’d also been building debt
Is this all meant to bring us closer to being an animal
That is more right than man
Never in embarrassment, always knowing what to do
Or when I try here to create you
Am I really not using you as I use dusks or dust
To run away from writing what I cannot face:
Not human suffering, or even less of death
But a failure to want a change in my life badly enough
So that grey motes, sunsets, sin
Are only ghastly posters plastered on a wall of decay

One comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: