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I begin with the clock moving slowly
across midnight
into the forgotten hour.
it is into my world
where
I do not truly find comfort,
but a means to exist without it in harmony.
I write moving slowly like a symphony
giving much thought as the keys are pressed with
fearful appendages of the human spirit.
I do not have much of anything interesting to write.
I write from the gut of my soul.
inside I hear a heater humming like an engine in a car.
inside I feel not love, or hate, or the strumming beat of a broken heart
but confusion. I do not feel like pacing. I do not feel like struggling. I do not feel like trying.
I am like a dying beast in the meadow crying its aliens sounds.
fear lest I be forgotten.
the ego is great as is self-preservation in the most murderous of souls.
even the suicides long to leave a mark in this world,
for that is why they ended their lives.
arranging these impossible sentences, not trying, it is a miracle
of self-preservation.
would the dying not try in their final moments to remember
all of which was important? one last time before the culling of death?
the human spirit is resilient, I must admit.
but death must come its simple and insidious way,
it is the greatest harmony we know,
to be simple and done with it like the
end of a poem.