The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Thursday, July 15, 2010


Hushed is my tear
As it dries within fear
Of these, your spilling lies
Overflowing co-existing lives
Inside each and everyone I see
Although not in an image of me
Yet akin we are in precise ways
Within these elements of praise
And even if never do I stay still
Dormant inside is my free will
Worthless to you if asleep
Oh so often do I weep
Surely so weary
Is my sleet
And solid
Unable to sense
Any longer in chaos
And my spinning dance
Nauseated from the fumes
Buried toxic waste is unseen
Of poisoned illusions so keen
Numbed to your defiant dare
Absent concern or even care
Gift to me from each of you
I accept this without adore
Silent though scorching
Overheating evermore
Is my brilliant core
Decaying, dying
Though surely
Am I
The Earth
You all love

No comments: