Genes

For over a year did I write certain nights when I could.

Orator for the planet with a voice like earth

and a few odd ghosts behind me.

Herein lies the testament of the word.

 

A statement much too much for me to bear.

It overflows me, and I am afraid.

I have no proof. I am poet and cannot explain.

I will go into the other room to drink.

 

My God, my love is way out of control.

All manner of loneliness I pray to.

I will be like the far thoughts of paper.

When the word existed before it was spoken.

J. M. Fitzgerald

Barnwood poetry magazine