Blind days, closed moments,
When my unworded question
Of who am I, and where am I going,
If I am not here, and nothing exists.
The children of midnight lie about
In ditches. How they fondle the mud.
Bare slimy mud blossoms:
Sunflowers by another name.
I am not here, nor am I yonder:
I repeat this to myself
For my rebellious words have been ransomed
By kings, between sharp blades of the knife.
My hours are spun
By the mad whirring spindle
And my death clambers up the ladder
Of my star-studded dreams.