Writers of Truth

Writers of truth, how I love the feeling, as opposed to the writers who only write to write, feeling, overhead, determining, dreaming of glory, seeking to be accompanied by acceptance, as if acceptance is the thing that defines the worth, and the worth is expressed by beauty, it stands right there in front of you and it screams at you that your writing is 'out of love' and your money will not bring you art, and everything that you do is temporary, it will not succeed, it will not advance further than the present moment, and I think that there are degrees of success, if success is even a word, and pouring over me are your words, and your being inadequate, and I wonder how you feel when you are truly alone, without the comfort, of the comfort of the one you claim to love, and the one that you claimed to love, wasn't really someone that you could touch, you desired more, you were hungrier, and I wonder how that might feel

Old Eyes

Eyes, in memory, unremovable, fixed, like the star in 'Eileen Aroon' now buried in Bunclody, in County Wexford, and these eyes, still have something to say, and they remain, and they yet continue to pierce their way into my consciousness, yesterday and today align, separated only by refusal, by reluctance to let them have their way, and the picture must be allowed, must be granted its freedom to exist after its death, and those eyes, those eyes of death, question with their question, until they themselves choose to sleep, in a sleep that can never be death, that will return always, they seem to flit between a former death and a present life, they seem to know when to activate and when to retire, and I'm tempted to think that the truth is in the middle somewhere, in that mediocre place, that place that is halfway up the mountain, and those old eyes, spoke to me of love and its search, and then they turned away, to the place that they presently had been focussed upon, and I stood in a lonely place, where music was my master, lending itself to poetry, and I ended up looking at the wall, and at its corner, and the size of my world decreased, and I was assailed by anger, much as I tried to still it, in a time of emptiness.