Before My Pencil Is Forever Out Of Led

written after reading Keats' poem "When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be"

Tracing shadows with my thumb,

thinking back how time has come

to a spot, a crack, perhaps, in which

two shouldn’t ever have existed.

Keats echoes me something small,

in words that dare to tell

a fear of not having many years

to give out a story for.

Happy boughs or silent branches,

which am I, I wonder?

For when waters pull me under,

will my woes be put aside?