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I

You don't know the tears;

they recycle now: they're OLD grief.

Nothing's "new"; same ache.



Life-cycle, infinite Life....

"Joy Of Being..." dulls  Fate's knife.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There was a poem published in a national weekly magazine, around 1955~56.  The last line in it was "The Joy Of Just BEING Cuts Like A Knife"; if you know the poet and the name of the publication, prove it to me, and I will buy the rights to that poem.  R.S.V.P.  Merci.
P.S. I forget why the title is "I".

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last updated 12 October 2010 - 5:31am
©30 January 2003 - 7:36pm — TREXPATTON