Being right is such a stretch

It’s such a fight

I’d rather just be beautiful

And instead of a philosopher

Burning away his soul to the night

I might just as well be a poet

burning away my soul to the night.

Night, a steady flow of that

which is the underside of that

which is the daylight…. of that

which also haunts, the deep

quiet corners of my heart.

Who lurks in those quiet dungeons

Who has been tortured there

forever and more?

I feel sometimes that the ocean roar

can heal me of the chore

of living and I could then start

The most eagerly awaited part

Of being beautiful.