What causes good
a conscious sadness;
what's my prize
for tears blindfolded;
on streaming time,
unfolded words,
what's there be hoped
for opened hurts;
no better so
of parallel agony
this break of before
to perished symphony
just never forgotten;
better yet, so haunted,
in an all-knowing sadness
within blinded joys;
yet why's knowledge
more cruel than heart;
than force so humane
by skin to its depth,
like stars unreachable
by thinking at sinking,
perhaps, distance at growth
for downfalls it's milking;
like serpents on souls
no innocent as gods,
no traitor as myself,
when my poems--my fraud;
pity then, I;
pity is my future
if asleep or alive
for no moral's my teacher.
