Saturday, May 30, 2015

Collected poems


Collected poems                                                                                               

How pathetic must sound my poems
to those in the fire!  How sad

my quavering approach to the precipice’s edge.
Words of love with no love there, just a discussion,

a hypothesis, no substance or fire.
Not whispering endearments but interrogations;

cold, analytic chatter.
Those in the fire long in sympathy

for my ultimate defeat –
collected poems, accumulated pages

torn and crushed, fed
into the eagerly awaiting flames.

O child of God, don’t let words withhold you
from becoming silent ash and dust.

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