Sane

I tire of miserables and wench
My pitted vaccuous blackness from it--
The fools. With twistings of numbness
And grief, real as they believe,
I know the cardboard feel of it--
Like sprizzing felt and blackened marbles they
Dream of sweet insanity. Could I laugh?
For can an elm know the rootedness that
Grounds her? I think, presume at best,
That which most terrifies, heartens not,
And derives its pain from fools who know,
Can see itself in rationality. That release,
Which lures self pity into desperate wantingness
Of excuse, can cause the turnings to begin--
As they have begun--
And the terrible moment comes with a whisper:
The pain is in the knowledge of my vile, my evil;
However insane the wretch devours herself.
 

BACK TO PVELP'S WORKS