- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Those Waters Stream
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Sometimes I stop crying. Surely I knew
I would for a brief while? I lean to kiss
his portrait and stay calm for once.
The clue
(to despair) lies in red rimmed eyes, dismissed
when glimpsing in the mirror - I don't dream
or hope I'll ever drown the taste of death
and desolation.
Tears? Those waters stream.
I drag my hand across. There's no relief
from chill and damp sorrow. I am beguiled
by death each day.
And, yes, I have rehearsed,
but expurgate dire thoughts unreconciled
with endless, dread ideas; I sigh and purse
my lips, then bite them bloody, as I rock
and cry and rock and cry until I stop.
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