we are mulched, come the time
in the earth like broken
fragile leaves in autumn

whether our vaults are full
or empty, we go,
with full hearts, or with sorrow

we all must pass the gate
where none are and none wait
as who shun the feast we hate

no word is spoken
our silent bones only, the token
of all our walking in the snow:

coldness of human, no heart
was here:  I sought in vain
for peace, for the quiet part

of life.  I stared out of
many windows at the rain
and lived the wordless art

of severance and too much thought
and was the point
only that I was?

what did I choose, if any
thing at all was mine,
any deed not chosen for me?

in time I carried much
with empty hands, and fought
the day, too bright and sharp

it lit the things I
did not want to see.
Will memory last?

and experience impart
to others what I knew?
I recognised the signs

when they came, and taught
myself to live, to understand
first cause, anoint

myself with holy oil
as if I could ward-off
all the things that soil

and bend to that far spark
struck deep in me
that crippled with too much

of everything, too deep
the feel, life as touch
did kill the spirit and the blood

all I loved did pass -
small boats I could not
anchor at my side

for all wood rots at last
and sleep comes late,
and peace in that vast

ocean swell hides all
our fragments, cosmic dust
we are, borne by unseen

tides in a vast whirling
circle, till we fall in
and are gone in sand

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