On Experiments with Poetry

Quietude

It is quiet...
And I fear the scratching of my pen may be too loud.
I hesitate--

Hesitate--

For the sleepers gathered here
Rest.
In far too deep a peace.


I dare not rouse them from their end...
Call on them
To rise again and fill my lines...
To imprison them within my verse.

Forever--
A ceaseless existence devoid of peace--
Devoid of rest...

Void


The stillness shudders--

I put my pen away.
And I close my book.
I hesitate--

I go.
I will disturb the sleepers no more...
No captives will I make of them...
Their stories shall remain their own--