The world seems all so soft—bland, flabby, Empty, flaccid world. Reality, Bluntly muted, echoes dully Inside the chamber Of mind. Often disapprove. Often believe That ought not join. Mind sits deadly, With no weight to move. Motion, passion, seems all so vague And distant—second-hand world. Those that do convey By word alone echo too many Times, over and over. They Will not rid themselves of ear’s body. They make head throb heavily. If persons felt could but feel as well. The aid of ear And eye alone is insufficient. Some will Starve; but they won’t care, But for reality, where They think they, and every Other person must be. Do think, hope, and love, and dream; But fear that all reality sees is the body. Live, but through the softness receive The impression that some are unable To feel others’ lives. They live too, partially; But to see with their eyes that others are able To feel more than matter, and are able To live, is like seeing around a corner, for Them, requiring a mirror Of suffering only, to enable perception—sensitivity. Passion is motion crude. Why must tell One girl love is on her? Can’t she feel it? These questions will Be the death. These questions are driving To become like many Others—starving. Yet unlike—wanting to be loved, eaten Too much life, and given It all. The world seems all so soft. Motion, passion, seems all so vague and distant. Those who convey by word alone Echo too many times, over and over. Head throbs heavily.
October 1969