A Poem Moves Only Its Pawn
I have been to the brink
And I am not going back again
Less I shall not return. Insane
Some shall go and sink
Into the blackhole of reason.
Did you know a man is composed
Only of his thoughts? I'm exposed
Too much to curve of season,
This world is all a candle of poetry.
I could not blow it out, yet
It has burned all to death,
And now is burning fabled history.
I think winds are impotent too,
Every tree they blow down
Gets up again. I do not frown
For the forest so close at view;
I was only a month gone
And jungle moved to my lawn;
Only a night precedes each dawn.
A poem moves only its pawn.
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