This blue, I find incomprehensible
this reluctance to share
with joy
the abundance of words and imgination
of things
they way they used to be
and can be
of wings and things
which cannot be seen.

I can't understand this dryness
this inability
to think and feel
and to let it flow
to fly with it
like some song in the wind
to escape this body
this space
this time
this obsession

It is as if some part of me is dead
turned dry bark
it shrivels
and I feel the fear and blackness
as it eats me up
some monstrous fetus which refuese to be born
but hollows me from inside
like some sickness
it is what life would be when imagination is external
things I frantically try to gather
like some sad old lady with her bag of cans
and then to sell it cheaply

It is what god would feel
if he realizes he can no longer create
or sing
words which matter
when songs lie on my lips
dry and cracked into little pieces
when there is nothing left inside
and that desire
that desire
to spin words like melody is gone
when I can only be a thief
snatching tidbits from great poets
pickpocketing the genius and inspiration
of some other

My tears are tricks
what I feel a fake
like so many people at a Christmas party
their smiles and small talks
when that void becomes clear
a dark lake
and I try to look for my reflection
but see this sewer hole
that the moon has long fallen in
shred to bits
even as I try to find a light
to cleanse and purge this dark soul
the rats are gorging the silvery pale face
and the stars stink.