I could

I could write volumes of poems
in my own blood, use up my life to paint
my inner landscapes of agony
for eyes averted, hearts indifferent –
and still I could not voice my pain,
still I would feel like the bird
broken on my windowsill.

And I wonder what on earth
is the point of it all?

I could cut myriads of screams
into my lonely skin,
send pouring hidden cries of help,
dripping into the darkness unheeded –
and still I could not fill my void,
still I would feel like the frog
squashed grotesquely on the street.

And I wonder why on earth
I don't die?

I could turn to You
and let You enter my suffering;
I could return to You
and let You meet the need
at the root of my darkest desires.
I could be made whole again
like snowdrops arising from winter.

And I wonder why on earth
I don't do it?

7.10.04