Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
This Much Is Known . . .
This much is known:
No one ever knows
how some will stumble groping
throught the raging darkness
the blinding noise
and survive.
The whirling colored mirrors
shrouds for those we bury
dizzy with distortion
smoky pains of glass
where no exit ever lies.
This much is known:
No one ever knows
who is born to snap
or break in many pieces
or explode,
and no one ever knows
who comes out alive.
A tongue will rend the air
and some will cringe
though most will never notice
and none can ever say
just what it takes to die.
This much is clearly known,
and the liars all
must have their day.
This much is known,
and no one ever knows . . .
© D. Winter
2001
