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Stone


I have a heart of stone
that was of softer substance
My vision is as glassy
As a crystal bead, or a dead fish's orb.
My hearing is attuned
To cacophony of all things, lies and truths alike.
So, like a statue all alone,
Of alabaster countenance
And vision that is as empty
As the still air, or stagnant water,
I am not myself.
I am a likeness of something I call myself.
They put gods and goddesses in gardens
Without conviction that they do exist.
I, too, have no conviction.
I try to feel, to see, to hear, to live
As one with heart, eye, ear and soul,
But all I do is to live partway,
The other half I give to falseness and to artifice.

Where is the unity of soul and tears
When even tears come only from the eyes?
Where is the unity of sound and word
When even words come only from the pen?

So here I vainly write
With a heart so like a stone.
I look to artifice and rhyme,
But like my life, I write a lifeless clone.

29th April 2000