The tree branches sway back and forth in freedom,

teasing and taunting me while I lie in my own self-pity.

This eternal thirst I have cannot be quenched.


A pole’s flag violently swaying in a hurricane

as it bends and hurls,

sick with despair,


I snap out of my thoughts and emit a sigh, a moan;

which it is

a mystery

I’ll never solve.


I cannot tell if I am frowning or weeping,

my heartbeat picks up, I bite my nails.


This disease is a spiritual presence,

haunting all those who have it.


I lie awake and think of them:

the ones that I admire and can comprehend.

Us poets, compare one thing to another,

but we ourselves are truly the hardest to understand.