It is not sad, really, only empty.
It is not sad, really, only empty.
This poem is not addressed to you.
Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago.
Now comes the evening of the mind. Here are the fireflies twitching in the blood.
Men at forty Learn to close softly The doors to rooms they will not be Coming back to.
There is no way to ease the burden. The voyage leads on from harm to harm, A land of others and of silence.
Now comes the evening of the mind.
Or are Americans half in love with failure?
Think
Of the first small joys.
Night is the sky over this poem.
My name is all names, or none.
Your type of beauty has no place here.
If he could sleep on it. He would make his bed with white sheets And disappear into the white, Like a man diving, If he could be certain That the light Would not keep him awake, The light that reaches To the bottom.
What is it to be happy, after all?
How shall I speak of Doom, and ours in special, But as of something altogether common?
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories