Futility

Sometimes I think You are down Low, you crawl; Wondering how I let you climb into my head To make a mess.

You, Poetic-less Colorless Music-less.

Head full of schedules Mouth full of excuses.

All your Russian writers With their fine words And volumes of love Thoroughly described Couldn’t make up For that void inside. It remained only theory. When it comes to practice I’ve rejected My rose-tinted glasses. At last.

Still I don’t know What were your caresses for? From where did they come? They still haunt me.

Where did I find, Where did I squeeze from From which surface I scraped The remnants of life in you? That still haunts me, too.

The pale look From your pale eyes Your pale, barren words Echo in the emptiness of the story I wanted to write.

I scorched your skin With the sparks from my eyes — Is it still kicking in?

Go, have it all, chase them all You are free — Your head a cage of possibilities You are not able to fulfill.

My fire stays with me.