* * * * * * * *
Perhaps I should weep
for things lost,
for peace I couldn't find,
for the darkness I feel falling,
for the stars I can't hear calling.
But I cannot seem to summon tears
and I always preferred the night.
If there are to be tears
(I doubt)
let them not be for me -
who in my arrogance
caused pain,
who in my death
may yet somehow be responsible
for one act of kindness.
But let them be for one
who should never have been tainted
by my touch
my insincerity.
And after all these lies
I find myself unsure
where the lies stopped
and the truth began.
The stars know everything,
and perhaps they knew
perhaps they saw
my self-delusions.
And perhaps they weep
when I cannot.
* * * * * * * *
return to The Library
