I write All I do not know,For the libraries have left me Of their books, Of their words. I am a sentence too late To whisper a farewell in your ear.You came in a moment,To disappear off the clock,As I counted each second backwards.Your breath sails down your throat,Swallowed in every edge,Disdained by every pledge.Your eyesDid not close, for the book,As each chapter was written without muchEmotion,I merely set sail upon the pagesTo be lost in fear and blankness.My uncertainty Became your security.My blue Became your gray.Your eyesSculpt out demise While death's veil covers you,I cannot be near, though to feel inferior.
