Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
—Dylan Thomas
I use to construct
A world,
No better or worse
Than this one…
They’re dark letters
I use to draw
A picture,
Cross thatching
Shadows of pain
With drops of rain.
I'm not in control
But shattered,
My words
Broken too,
Come out as sobs
And I let them—
Let them
Fall to the ground
Where everything
Dark and numb belongs.