Memoir

We’re light bulbs, dearly affected, accompanied by pain.

How does it feel, living in caves, afraid of tender welts?

A line is so thin. Souls are so hurt. Life is bleeding. I

can’t explain it, so close to hate: I merely see it:—pain,

love and vice. So many showers, a tub of soaps, ever to

utter, “Death.” How is it us, a gust of wind, as discreet as

sin? I’m torn, sorely unsung, trying and trying and

trying some more. I’m smaller than a thought piercing

wounds. How has it happened, blazing Avril, tapering

every sentence? This world, a prayer and curse, asearch

for a cure. I confess: daylight is pressure; and midnight

is more the same. How does it feel, living in caves,

where nobody understands? A vision was sung, dearly

unafraid, but travesty intervened. It was never us, ever

chosen, where a swan determined life. I speak of spirit,

long to live, peering into madness.