some whats without whys

My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.
--my dreams, my works, must wait till after hell
By Gwendolyn Brooks


the sleepless night that creeps in
the voice that speaks from somewhere
the feeling that there is someone watching me
the freedom of feelings

the hour badly spent on the trite
the thoughts that cascade and form streams
the words that filter out everything
the forgotten emotion

the thought that gets recorded
the reader as an accomplice
the vanity of the words
the vanity of the reader

the purity of of love that holds
the memory that fades
the old pages that have been read
the clear horizon after a rain

the heart that beats again
the eyes that see again
the body that senses again
the energy that shines again

the bends in the road.

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