streets of my feelings,
mental corridors just
out-of-reach of introspection;
the agony persists for weeks,
living with malignant tumors
as if it were some kind of traveling companion;
no one with whom to talk,
no one with whom to share these feelings,
the hangman’s rope dangles above
my head with each contemplation;
I speak when I am told,
answering what they want me to; so,
who are you to question my misery,
even if it were déjà vu for both of us,
like walking down the streets of my gold.
August 7, 1987
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