My face is a pale shade of grey
(If any shade of grey need not be pale)
And it lies upon its pillow in the afternoon
Dreaming of love that passes in the clouds
My heart is a bloody wound in life
Marking the end death made
(If any living be not death)
Convulsed in sobbing motion in its cage
My hand lies open, a white paper page
The fingers thin and tremble at the ends
As though a child had cut this paper to the shape
And held it gently where it sways.
1984
