I cannot be a poet because I cannot extract the sting, ruminate the poison or rue the day
or forget the thing:
your eyes distain
my blind affliction
and Hear the infinite 'no'
Looping over.
What happens to a face on which the lines of failure trace
What happens to the core that sacred Intuition graced?
The pith, the singularity around which I pivoted,
That I was so completely, utterly, devastatingly, wrong
and
thus fracked, flawed and floored,
For this one terminal act, will thunder down all my days to
rust
And grind my artificial pride to finest dust
