The Loneliness Of The Untiring Writer
with equanimity i write for this audience,
deaf,
blind,
mute,
....imagine some monkeys and rats, and worms and squirrels
mute, blind, deaf,
i have no regret at all,
their hearts are bigger than the islands of paradise,
the mute claps with three hundred hands,
the blind sings with all the angelic voices in tens of hundreds
the deaf dances like some kind of a wiggling worm
vitally replicating its numbers geometrically
there is still this
wanting to be caught by a hungry
black bird
it is the silence of the mute that speaks so loudly
like a speaker of the house,
it is the restlessness of the deaf that shakes me,
and i tremble like a cymbal clanging ceaselessly
the chants of the blind, mystifies me,
scented cinders, lighted candles, fireflies on the trees
conclusion: we have become one happy family
and tonight, i will be writing some more for them
I've got no other valuable audience anyway.
and, let me finally add,
it is only my dead mother who still loves me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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