I once wrote some poems of stillness and silence, Standing by rivers of reflected light: My thoughts were on being loved and yet unloved, too - I surrendered to the warmth of the night. And now I feel like dying, and if the water were still here, it would hold me close.
I once wrote a poem while walking on gravestones, As cobbles, rain and tear lashed down my face.... I then felt my whole world was fading As memories jostled and fell into place. And now I feel like dying, and the pain of old fires still burns.
I never wrote poems when I bit my knuckles And Death started slipping into my mouth... But that was really a long time ago, And I'm not writing poems now. And though I don't feel quite like dying, there is something deep inside me softly crying.
And though I don't feel quite like dying There is something deep inside me softly....
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