He caught me in the dark room stood,
a disused lamp, cornered; saw thru,
understood, as god would, subjectively.
But no-one ever knows what I think
as my pen scores the page. I’m alone:
not like when I’m by the river tho,
dark after the funeral, or in a crowd,
where an inner eye still lights me; but free,
beneath myself.
yes, i remember you saying something similar on another poem. can’t remember which. Thanks Dean
this has a similar feel which I’ve commented on before, of being found in the notebook of a missing poet or alchemist,
someone disappeared, or found, as charred ashes in spontaneous combustion!