Dear Doctor
I am impossibly sad.
like the tinctures, given by homeopaths
I have been shaken so many times,
none of the original life is left.
Doldrums of the infinite,
while sailing to Byzantium,
a cask of whiskey on the deck,
so that this man can die laughing.
A mother on the border,
Fleabites of infancy,
He asks why they live. *why I live
Are we not all parasites?
It is not that I don't see
The glory of the infinite.
The harmony of quanta.
But there is a voice,
That calls to me in my dreams,
And reminds me, I am alone.
In the end, I am a confluence of sparks
A rusted imprint of a man,
A day which is always ending.
I yearn for sleep.
May I awake as soil,
or the mold for penicillin,
something that can serve.
I am a patch of atoms,
Called by God
To spin to death.
