Standing by rivers of reflected light;
My thoughts were on being loved and yet unloved, too -
I surrendered to the warmth of the night.
And now I feel like dying,
And if the water were still here,
It would hold me close.
I once wrote a poem while walking on gravestones,
As cobbles, rain and tears lashed down my face;
I then felt my whole world was fading
As memories jostled and fell into place.
And now I feel like dying,
And the pain of old fires still burns.
I never wrote poems when I bit my knuckles
And Death started slipping into my mouth...
But that was really a long time ago,
And I'm not writing poems now.
And though I don't feel quite like dying,
There is something deep inside me
Softly crying.
And though I don't feel quite like dying
There is something deep inside me softly...
