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--
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