" "

If I could create a poem
Of ordinary things you might see
What lyes at the bottom of a well
You might see stones and thorns
And torn fragments of a dawn
That never rose from the grave
Of restless night; you might see
The storms that stole the cherished Ideal of love - or perhaps a flower
That scarcely had a chance to realize
The glory of sunlight, as it fell
In flecks of golden light upon a life
That was marked by storms of wind
And rain; and you might see the Emptiness
That resides at the bottom of a flame
Meant only for one heart to touch,
And yet never managed to find its way
Out of the debris of its own madness, as Shadows
Fell onto rivers wild with regret,
And flowing with a most unrelenting Remorse.