i wish i were a better poet
then i could write a golden sonnet,
prevent poor Romeo from dying.
but could i blame this withered flower
on empty air, when golden boughs
drop manna everywhere?
i can't keep count of all the notes aborted.
where is the palm that holds the tree,
the black feathered bird that speaks?
why are they silent, those ghostly walls?
there is no other ggod but me.