No papers in my satchel here beside,
nor projects, nor notations. Any plan
is wanting. Wanting. All my dreams have lied
in fading regress of a fading man.
A thousand days I’ve started, never one,
and given to a hundred sunsets pause
enough to live. To live. If there were none,
I’d still be here sequestered–without cause–
as now, but in a void revealing. Cold
and empty, serving as I wait, I’m told,
but empty: too aware of wasted steps,
and unprepared for what I can’t delay.
For me there is no sanctuary left:
if there are words, they are not mine to say.