I had wanted to edge in yes?
Edge in with those men
Who indicate their pain through details
Of the earth's restless dismissal
Of our hopes. I awoke imagining
Your inscrutable aloofness
Reflecting my rejected scripts. This lashing rain
Beats out more stacatto empty morse
Upon my furrowed windows. Without the flame
We are aimless fodder
Feeding the chemical labyrinth.
It's called finding one's voice yes?
Voice.
Like finding oneself
Awake
Forced to absorb
This demented downpour
Which has failed to quieten
That sodden song thrush
Waking in the whirring pines.
I listen yes?
Listen to the falsity........
Those habitual turnings
From the act of integrating
All that is here.
It is very strange yes?
Strange that there really is
No defeat in turning around.
The instant I gave up trying
To refeel what had past
I heard the burn
raging beneath the bridge
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