with a glistening past
to try and find
a spark of me.
Where is the fire that used to burn through my hand into
Scalding, boiling pages?
How do I write anymore at all.
When all I have searched for, I've found?
What can you document, when every moment
Becomes a spiral of light and art
That envelopes you?
What kind of peace is light,
When you cannot find the means to share such absolute
Beauty?
When you cannot find the means to share such absolute
Beauty?
Wow! I love this poem and its haunting presence in this dead blog. I wish I could remember who had which name, so that I could tell you that your voice still matters, even when tempered by the fade of years.
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