I cannot not write
romantic poems like Rilke.
Or conjure up images
like Emily Dickinson.
But like them,
I do not want to live in
the realms of praise.
Nor spend too much time
addressing the blue veins
on the dry streets.

You told me, I was older
and less handsome.
You are right.
But over the years,
I have clearly grieved.
The pain still runs
through my limbs.
Burned inside me like a voice
that keeps calling me back.

But I am still not
just eating seeds.
Or watching the
reflections shimmer
on the water, until
they disappear.
For me, silence always breaks.
And when it does.
I will be smiling in a café.
Drinking coffee
and writing my poems.
And life will not be deceived.
What about you?
​