"... the making of poetry ... is a matter of thinking," - Martin Heidegger -!

Approaching midnight
     Nameless sorrow
          Spreading peacelessness
               In immeasurable need
Mounting confusion
     Long in the time of terror
          Because even terror
               Is a ground for turning


The fumes of nonexistence
The smell of being not
The odor of what this is
          Perfumes my rooms so hot
In sight I tell
Impressions well
          In touch, brushes gloom
I hear the knell
Of that sad bell
          I taste death too soon
David Francis Smith
Created 2001/7/7
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