7-7-97

(Another poem found in the annals of my Brother word processor years. Who knows when this was originally drafted.)

 

Poetry runs

                    through

                                my

                                    fingertips.

Music plays

                    in

                     my

                         brain.

I cannot explain.

Is it joy?

Is it pain?

Will it be sunny?

Will it be rain?

I cannot tell you.

I cannot say.

We can say we will live forever.

We can take it day by day.

But, isn’t it all the same?

Today may be eternity.

Tomorrow may be the last.

But…

I cannot say.

I will not say.