The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me

The Word Landed With A Stony Thud Onto My Still-beating Breast. Nevermind, I Was Prepared, I Will Manage With The Rest. I Have A Lot Of Work To Do Today; I Need To Slaughter Memory, Turn My Living Soul To Stone Then Teach Myself To Live Again. . . But How. The Hot Summer Rustles Like A Carnival Outside My Window; I Have Long Had This Premonition Of A Bright Day And A Deserted House.

Forgive Me, That I Manage Badly, Manage Badly But Live Gloriously, That I Leave Traces Of Myself In My Songs, That I Appeared To You In Waking Dreams.

The Whole Time I Was Hoping My Silence Would Fit Yours And Exclamation Marks Would Gently Float Across Time And Space So That Boundaries Would Be Crossed; The Whole Time I Was Praying You Would Read My Eyes And Understand What I Was Never Able To Understand. See, We Were Never About Butterflies. We’ve Always Been About Burning Stars. All About Us Is Unearthly And Radiant.

But Fear And The Muse In Turn Guard The Place Where The Banished Poet Has Gone And The Night That Comes With Quickened Pace Is Ignorant Of Dawn.

The Stars Of Death Stood Over Us. And Russia, Guiltless, Beloved, Writhed Under The Crunch Of Bloodstained Boots, Under The Wheels Of Black Marias.