and I can remember why I write

and I can remember why I write,
when all else is closing in like the crush of the blue mountains.
when the faces are having it all, those friends
who are in love in their baskets of light.
it's then that you can drive into yourself, into your light
through the venetian blinds where the rose blooms, blossoms, and dies
as a flower is then picked and beheaded by a child.
I am here because I chose to be in my search for light,
but am often in darkness; draw blood in spite of wry madness
write poetry in ryhme, or sit here as still as the planets.
you can scream but nobody can hear you.
the catholic bell's have been tolled, the wine has been spilled
on the graves of a thousand poets
but no one can hear you. the lion devoured the dragon,
the stars move north and there are no kings to follow,
the earthquakes have not killed enough, the meteors, the fires,
the murderers, and the black plague has failed too.
the stink of light is everywhere and the cupid's arrow
is stupid like thunder alike, and still, no one can hear you-
so you write, strike for minor chance, find a reason to be
when even death has failed to follow.