Trustee old device;
here I sit
one more time,
contemplating your dirty screen,
forcing through
verse and rhyme.
For I can’t write.
Not since
my nasty wound is healed,
my sinister scars
beneath fresh skin
concealed.
Not since
my mornings
of the most cynical taint,
see me wake up
without slightest complaint;
Or my days
in the grip of fate,
keep giving me a reason
to hope
and wait.
I can’t write.
What if it’s time
to bid you adieu?
Because
until my days
regain their familiar
desolate
hue;
and body
and soul
are lacerated
anew,
I can’t write.
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