(11/26/1971 / New York)

Balanced On The Tip Of A Needle

there is a wickedness
that shrouds the air
I can feel it in my depths
as I sit caressing smoke.
it hangs thick
like the nearness of rain
pregnant and palpable in the air
with the knowledge that
the longer it waits the heavier it will fall
In the distance a crow called a mourners cry
and the wind moaned in return
like lost souls in the shadow.
I can feel the sadness grow
as I breathe it in
it presses from the inside
against my skin
for the moment
it all fits into my mind-deep pictures
as water fits into a jug...
and I move out of reach of myself, lost

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Comments (1)

I know this spiritual darkness and appreciate the poem.