if men are divided
as either
sheep or wolves,
then i already know
what is to become of me.

when my time comes,
when the slaughter is nigh,
i will stick out my neck
and tell them,
do it properly.

i am too tired
to do otherwise.
i find it preferable
to end this farce;
life will go on,
with or without sheep;
with or without wolves.

how i have
wracked my brain
on how to write
a simple poem
about a tree
lit by the moon.

nature is writhe
with such gentle beauty.
and yet
i cannot even start to
entice its essence
to settle as
a line or two on paper.
where beauty begins,
i cannot say.

to write of beauty
is to remember a dream;
to recall a thought
only half way through.
i cannot describe in words
that which is before me.
all i know is
that it is beautiful.

i have written
hundreds of poems.
in reading them over,
i find that
i have written
only a little bit of
poetry.

the passing of time,
the seasons,
of scenery
and people,
have scarred me;
embittered me.
i am now a more rigid person.

i dismiss my older writing as
pretentious;
uninspired;
misguided.
i wonder if
i should suffer the same verdict
when i,
once more,
re-evaluate.

in light of such a thought,
i marvel at
how little poetry
can be squeezed from a single life.

The pale blue
that filters through
my closed curtains;
the sting of light
as it pries open
my eyelids,
one at a time;
today, i am alive.

I could write
on emotion alone.
Through bitterness,
I sought beauty.
With rage,
I expressed
the torrent within.
All was aflame,
all had burned brightly.

But now,
it is naught but a flicker.
I pass time quietly,
as the ash of past emotions
blanket the landscape with grey.
I am tired.
I fear I may
never recover.

Let them be
as petals of a flower
scattered by the breeze.

If a poem
cannot be read
by for whom it's for,
then the heart asks,
what is it for.