There’s nothing more to write.
There’s nothing more to say.
Sailing off to the other-world
At the end of life
Is the only sweetness I can lend.
How reason has proven false
All that I loved.
And with that, blood flows through the valleys
Of the wine press.
Lay burden to bear
There were two things I desired.
I will find them when the ship sets sail.
For— You might call it pretentious
But I like writing complex poems.
It speaks what this mind conjures
In full breadth of its image.
Perhaps like music
It is loved for the repetitions.
That we can predict the next sequence of notes.
In my eye, I see great things
Landscapes and valleys.
I wish to choose language that speaks what is in me.
But, whatever I love, it is insufficient.
What I hate, it is regarded as priceless.
So, blood spills down the valleys
Because we mistake what is stone
With what is flesh.
I would love to fly away like a bird
Or hide away in the forests I love.
But, rather, I see the whole world wishes itself to change.
And if change it must,
Then men are the artifacts they worship.
For no knowledge can prove the foundations of love.
Yet, there it is for me to see and touch.
Rather, it takes much imagination to reason it away.
When I set sail, I would have already known.
B. K. Neifert 