Monday, March 18, 2019

Innocence Is Dangerous

In that time, I wrote a poem
That wrote itself, that wrote me.
In those days, I stared at words,
And the words talked back to me.

They told me how small a part
I would ever be of them,
A village that they passed through,
An inn they spent the night in.

There might be no trace of me,
None at all, endured in them.
I nodded as I spoke them, 

Words that made so much of me,
Words I couldn’t live without,
Words I moved so easily.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.