WHO IS THIS WOMAN
I cannot write, nothing bleeds of my fingertips I see a forest coming back to life A sparrow singing, perhaps, yelling at me to listen But I cannot bring a dead to living, write absurd commentaries upon it I cannot stop remembering what isn't supposed to be I cannot school myself to happiness Who is this woman, I do not know her Who is this man, I do not love I remember the last time I tried to hammer something delicate and oh so soft It broke in my hands and wailed I could not bring myself to nurse it Perhaps I have always been this cruel, this distant Perhaps I always make a handsome fool out of me I do not know what beckons I never heard your voice I never embraced you in the clasps of seeing I know going and not returning back I do not know this becoming, this running out of the sky
