by Lucinda Davidovna

Created on: January 13, 2009

A writing not conducive to

The words I want to say

An end that I will not pursue

A place I will not stay.

A resignation in some form?

Perhaps; yet also fear

Of pity, hatred, love and scorn,

Of truth becoming clear.

I believe what I think I know

My memory's a haze

A blacked-out, flashed-up picture show

Of life lived in a daze

The poetic, impulsive streak

Has well learned how to act;

Behind pure fiction to retreat.

To guard the mask intact.

The brave and lonesome fighting soul

Is torn between two paths

She knows not which one to extol,

From which to spin her craft.

I know what I think I believe

Yet am so scared to grope

Through darkness, crying to be relieved,

To find a glint of hope.

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