drafty quiet embankments
of sanctuary under the blankets...
No, I don't think,
when I write. My poem...
I'm quite afraid that I have failed
There's nothing in the drinking pail...
I almost want to cry,
in relief, in acceptance...
He doesn't hide under my bed
Nor does he hide in my closet...
Africa my home, my love of life
If I could only fly like a cloud...
Our footprints will fade
But still made an impression...
The night bathes the forest in red
And the leaves gnaw at tired old bones...
I ask myself what I really want from you.
How can I excavate my truth if you are...
Not accepting death,
eyes search in dark, the meaning...
I crave it deeply
passionately...
I still wake up without you
But often when it's night...