I am a hat,
hollow
and overflowing with drops of rain,
my use depends on everything else
but myself,
and my hobby is to hang
and wait
and be tossed about
until finally I'm used up.

Our story is of a
heartbreaking youthful nation.

We love in spite of pain;
we harm in spite of peace,

We shiver with drugs;
we preach about morality,

We live in pleasure;
we go on suicide missions,

We crave the dark;
we're safe in the light.

Ours is the fellowship
in eternal pride.

It’s fall
And it’s raining
Outside and you haven’t
called;
I’m faced with doubt—
Your image is fading
like the mist
on the glass stained
with
words I’ve traced:
“I want to say I will stay
I’ll wait”

Give me a reason not to go away.

The self is the spring of all things—
Of all emotions and feelings,
Of all wonders and dreaming;
Of all horrors and betrayals,
Of all evil and deceptive portrayals.

In the dark there is a light that
Is so, so small, it can’t have saved me from this—

Indeed it hasn’t: only has pushed me deeper in the dark.

There is the anger, the fear, the bitterness that sprouts ironically
From the heart of care—
If only the heart can be cold; if only it can survive to be:
As cold as care can be.