I look back Into the room of black Leaving it all behind Out of sight, out of mind Yet it follows me Darkness is all I see Follow the light Continue the fight Fading like my hope The light helps me cope But gone it will soon be I will see Only darkness around So profound Running to it I'll never fit I did not Guess I'll sit here and rot
I wrote this when I was bored. I don't know exactly what I was feeling when I wrote this, but my emotion flooded the page with words.
As if directed by dark unseen forces spreading from an acrid domain flames ignited consuming everything flames ignited consuming everything once arid forests and homes swiftly succumbed to the raging fires rising into black smoke spires!
Devouring all living matter in its wake nothing sacred with such heat those grasslands now totally destroyed nothing left but smoldering ashes in communities no matter their prestige as each became under siege!
Ferocious and hungry any daylight masked their lungs gasping to breath trapped as they perilously tried to escape the routes to safety fading facing ahead death anguish and disbelief victims united by loss and grief!
I try to sit down and write something fantastic and elegant But then I feel my stomach rumbiling No matter what time in day it is I'm always hungry where I want to devour everything that's food in sight.
(In a letter to his wife, Wallace Stevens, confided that writing was "absurd" as well as fulfilling. What of reading the write?) What makes you read on? Exquisite words? Or Exquisite thoughts? Ah, exquisite words forming Exquisite thoughts. At times so beauteous as to be Painful! Meter clipping along, tremulous tones trilling, Making the reader thrill in the "Ah, yes!" moment. Writing poetry is absurd, if you think about it. An absurdity bore of necessity. The reading, a veracious devouring Of sustenance. The substance of souls poured out.