Ω
Is it any wonder how writers,
even so young-
their faces tight and bright with sun,
their eyes agleam-
how yet they still succumb
to emptiness?
their faucets dripping dry
an empty sky
no air; nowhere to run
no thoughts to dream?
·
Then let the bullets fly
let blades invade the vital stream
let souls depart
.
And in ascension seem
to find their heart
