A poem that would be incessant
Not having a breach or pause
Amid its unremitting flow
Like life, or the farce resembling it…
Is it not the world that hinders the flow?
Is it not the dearth of silence that
Arrives beneath the sky of imagination?
Like Endymion I sleep in the cave,
Far from the madding crowd,
Asking me to lull myself into sleep and oblivion.
My destiny is served,
My heart fulfilled.
My poetry buried.