Transient are my poems;
on my fingertips they perch
like wind dust of thoughts
I fail so to search;
though presence holds name
in the fleetingness of life,
my poems shall pass;
in the silences of nights
for I'm incapable
of fostering beauty;
with these troubles in me
that wrecks what's lonely,
for beauty's aloneness
as my poems do hide,
in their shallowness of reach
where my ignorance abides;
transience, transience,
why never perish me though;
must I be downcast deploring
withrawed betrayal's abode;
yet what tolerance fools me
maybe befriended me more
as your transient age to life
won't heal but do soar;
for I'm incapable;
of nurturing closeness,
for transient are the fatal
of the transient losses;
I'm incapable;
I'm so humanly in love
with what's human in earthliness
as I...one transient poet does.
