by John Stocks
It was a departure from the script
Of sociopathic disillusion,
A brief immersion in rapture
Before the old demons came calling.
Soon waves of darkness would overwhelm
The fireflies of blistering prose
Too dear for possessing, too wild to hold.
Sometimes there are no answers.
It’s not if, but when and how and where
A message from the edge of infinity
As we come from nothing
Returning with a whisper.
And all that’s worth knowing
Rests on my shelf
A salutary reminder
That genius cannot rescue itself.
Copyright © 2010 by
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