Upon the pillow of complaisance
I rest my head tonight.
Closing a book by my bedstand
and sipping some tepid tea
I switch off the lights
without thought for others
who are being
gagged, raped, starved or beaten –
people not so different from me.
With fresh, warm sheets over my body
and a soft, feathered pillow under my head
only one question lingers vaguely
in the darkness:
"Is my conscience
really make of lead?"
the tiny bedrooms of our being
and clean isolation of thin sheets
this world is naked & screaming.
I like this poem, even though I do not understand it. How can you make a statement like that? Well, most things that I understand clearly I no longer really like.
Copyright (c) 1988, 2009 by
. All rights reserved.
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