I have waking nightmares
That it's too late,
That I'm too far ,
That I've murdered the poetry
Which was being born inside me.
I search everywhere I go
Looking for its remnants,
Not knowing the point in time
Or the place where it was lost.
I wonder sometimes
If a glance from your eyes
Or a word from your lips
Or even a prayer
From the hidden chambers of your heart
Might bring it flooding back into my soul.
The language which I fear is now lost,
The verse which eased my suffering,
The inky hope
Of a young man at twenty-one
Staring out over the Pacific Ocean,
Has slowly melted away into oblivion,
Dissolved in noise, and filth, and inaction.
Copyright © Dean Marais | Year Posted 2015
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