EVEN THE GRIEF IS TOO LATE

My heart, burning to ashes

in the furnace of the ribcage,

how much you suffer now -

but mind, my mind in

sorrow drowning, think

of the pain of those

for whose your grief bleeds;

theirs is the silent darkness

devoid of thought, theirs

is the grave and the urn.

No libation of self-torment

can their shades evoke,

too late your conscience awoke.

For naught you drown

and burn, sinner.

13.06.-15.06.2019