|
I wanted nothing less than hope,
But, relishing despair,
I plunged into the nearest hell
And spent some weekends there.
I saw no answers on the walls,
No rebirth in the rain,
No saving grace in suffering,
No rapture born of pain.
What held me there? It must have been
The jackal, crazed and lean,
Who took my face between his paws
And, hungry, picked it clean.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
