All that I suffer

All that I suffer
I divert to rivers that run
only by the drying
of ink on paper

All mankind
– which is to say, no one –
will hear my laments.
My sigh of uncertainty
will be but the fisherman
playing comet on the fragile endlessness
of the night horizon’s thread,
And the orange stars
that swim in my rejected tears
will return to being street lights
in the distance

Distance, of course
what else can heal better
than the distance
of world, then word
between I and what it is I suffer?
The writer’s feat
is to reduce the throbbing of his heart
to the screams of cicadas
in forests where nobody hears,
and finally to the scratching
of pen against paper

Until misery
becomes but that drop of rain
on his cheek


2 Comments on “All that I suffer”

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