Nobody's reading  
not this tome of words
that flows from brains that soak up sounds
and meanings every day  
they toil and boil the thoughts that singe the mind  
their unheard wisdom in disguise
through eyes of night and daylight showers dimmed  
skimmed from the cream of human kindness

swimming on the surface of the globe  
in green dresses - robes of silk and satin
sliding down the abysses deep and dark  
yet they'ignite a spark of truth for some  
when read at midnight by the candle in our beds  
our heads inclined this way or that  
their knowledge taxed to breaking point
a fact that seams the sheets
about our beings when we're dead

so what - the lark she sings - the mole  
he digs his den deep down in loamy earth
no sight his feet his guides his nose  
his feelers stand the test of time  
no tunnel is too long to reach the line of no return
we burn and at both ends  
we spit a life into the embers
as others make amends for strife and worry
seared from flesh and bone  
a home a house with man and mouse         3rd February 2012.

before you **** yourself,
just remember
that there are
places you have not been
and things you have not seen.
and poems to awe
art to draw
fields to walk through,
people to talk to,
music to take in,
games to win,
and books to be read.

so why,
oh why
do you wish
to be dead?