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My fingers rub the brittle paste that once held me together.
All the soft notes in all the winds, in all the world can't describe the sorrow.
All the boughs drawn strung and pulled can only mime a proxy of the caterwauling.
But its a silence really.
It's short grass rustling against a dulling horizon.
A peace in the stillness, an absence, a knowing.
Artists explode with violent sexual visions, ghastly and gross
to shock pervert arouse and inspire.
Singers flow and melt in the rhythm and the current of arithmetic and harmony.
Sculptors grapple with the real and the imagined, bashing reality into submission of their ideals.
And the poet bleeds silently in the corner in thick streams of black against a melancholic white universe.
Heroes have songs.
Chorus, Dirge, Sambas and Minuet.
Lovers have quarrels.
Embers, Blazes and Conflagrations.
The poet fears Nothing.
With wide eyed and earnest irrationality.
Fingers trembling, and a mind like an empty well.
