Titled Below


To an Author

I heard that you wrote
About your life again
On paper napkins of your heart
My life is blushing again

Painted as it is with glowing stars
I Cannot sleep for all this
Visiting estranged years pains me
I don’t want to look back, to the past

I want to look forwards, to youth
That is always young and work
That always needs to get done

That is my present, so when

You talk about yourself so intimately
I cringe at the prospect
I would prefer to work
Music and philosophy into my words

I didn’t want to know you by your writing
There’s no golden age of bohemianism
There’s just you and your pen
And a cat, who I imagine watches you.

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