An image carved out of the hills
Trips me up; my heart it thrills,
When the message leaves here ills,
I know that I am the screaming, shrill.
A poet once stood here alone;
She tried to build another Rome;
She searched the high and she fought the low,
Blessed for all Muse could bestow.
As her lines were woven, thread,
Making a parachute for her dead,
What use have they for moving on?
What use are they when they are gone?
Ephemetric whispers in her mind,
Sorting out this and that, she’ll find,
What once was solid falls like rumours
Upon her mind, historic tumours.
So to the future I look again,
A passageway is sure to bend,
Where from amazement, a Muse re-grows,
The soul is fixed amid its foes.
A broken heart, a heart of stone
Crumbling away when I am grown,
No other man I’ve ever known,
No other heart I’ve tried to throw,
No other breath that haunts my own,
The power in me beats alone.