Fourty years
hunched pen to paper
in this cold failing light

desperately carving
in this slow wooden river of paper
each passing face and dream

no master
of this rough wild beast
i cling to each word
and by bare hand wrestle it to
its palatable thought

Now i can only pray to reach
edge of page without faltering
as age and my illness eat away at
my strength

Two pages follow this as a peice of work
each one with a cruel cold pain
night will soon evaporate

i must find a place to shelter
before i am seen