I don't know that color blue -
of Antarctic pale wastes -
and I don't understand
his face
or tounge
of humble arrogance.

Language of star-swept sky and smoldering pain;
I learned a hundred words just for
the whispering of that name to the walls;
I wrote for the ghosts
who wandered the halls of my heart.

Now I've bleached & starched
folded, put away those haunts in the linen drawer,
with a dose of self-disgust and 'Nevermore' --
to whom
and for what
do I lash my soul and use the whip to write?