There is somewhere in me I suppose
a counter to each thing I've done.
A method with which to counter-pose
my poems each and every one.
A way to weigh their validity
and prove their value more than mine
to see the things I don't want seen
and know the depths then of my mind.
How much time did I devote to you?
To the winning of what could never be
to the striving just for something true
and the pity then of reality.
The glimmering of something that
may in some other time be real
validation only that I forgot,
that I could once again just feel,
and somehow in likelihood be sought
though nothing now
there is left to me,
neither regret nor woe or fear.
Because always condemned it is I be
to love and languish here.