There is but one inside each of us,
The magnificent irony that is you,
The gift of emotion and darkness,
Light and the solemn silence.
In each there is a word never spoken,
The lord of his or her pen stroke,
Like a library of dreams
Disclosed to the insensible mind.
In vain with each passing day
The infinite ache of the lifespan
Becomes an accessible garden
And fountains of immersive memory.
And to die is but to awaken,
We toil in the philosophy of words,
Without strength or direction
Writing sorrowful verse.
Haiku, sonnet, free verse,
Stars, skies, oceans, meadows,
All are symbolic to the perceptions
In the void of the eye's twilight views.
Painfully we probe the depth
And fathom the darkness,
Heaven becomes a metaphor,
Hell seems too real, the Power....
Long before me or you,
The dead poets took the dark
And shown them in the light
In his or her fading dusk.
The gallery of poems,
Impalpably dreaded like life,
And we are the dead whom write
Of life in the setting sun.
Power, which had written this poem,
Disfiguring the poet, perpetually dark,
The word speaks through us,
The curse is to observe as it all passes away.