LOST WORKS

VI

Once I listened to the world:

The multitude of sounds

Filled my being

With images and rhythms

So beautiful and ponderous

That I could not contain them.

In tiny, fragile moments

They would spill upon a page

Not as poems

(They had no pretentious, careful

       hand of discipline)- - -

But as poetic fragments.

These fragments were splinters of my soul,

Mere momentary glimpses

At something too immense

To magnify. . .

(But we can enlarge upon the fragments,

We can amplify the murmuring whisper

     of isolated thoughts).

But soon I ceased to listen:

The clamor of ideas

Made me believe that

I

Had far too much to say

To be limited to listening.

 

My eloquence diminished

Into silence

And silence echoed silence.

I stood mute

With marble lips

Declaring

The barren emptiness

Within.

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