Poetry

What shall I write 
from the empty, desolate heart, 
when every word is being scraped? 
 
You want to clean the mess 
of a lifetime, 
yet labour brings loneliness 
and you inherit 
the depth of a problem. 
 
A thought which has no ending. 
A constant battle with yourself 
in the bleak winter of age. 
 
One by one they have died, 
Your invisible gods. 
The vast landscape 
of knowing the truth 
still remains unconquered. 
 
Pursue you must for the sake of moment 
a flame which has no heat!