ALL WE CAN DO IS RAIN

It isn’t able to open the mouth
Because, if the lips parted
like pale flower petals,
A grim storm would
squeeze through the opening
compassionless, irresistible and usurping
and filled with rain

All the dead philosopher died in it
All over again.
It cannot write, just rain
And hide, that the storm
Is still boiling behind the
Corners of the mouth.
The creature
Is remaining silent and
Is dripping ashes
To the ocean

It has to breathe, breathe, breathe
Or the storm would tear it
In tidy pieces.
When the hidden onyx
Is welling behind the unseen glass,
It has to breathe
And the glass will shrink
And flee from outside the heartshaped shadow-

But then
The thing
Was breathing too often
As the glass was running one time too far –

It ate the sense
It ate the skin
It ate the mind

Until the broken clockwork
Jumped growling
Into the eye of the world.

This is the truth.

The feathers are weighting me down.

The creature has
A two times dead philosopher
Buried in the aching chest.

But nowhere
NOWHERE
Is
an
elegy
It
could
sing