I desire poetry -
breathing in confessions
of the poet's longing,
intolerant of her giving up.
As I live on
no longer able to transcend,
breathing catastrophically,
intent upon being in her company
and considering her worth,
I am interrupted and enchained,
old now, my instincts blunted,
sacrificing the very dust of my name.
Caught between the desire to grow
and the sorrow to stay,
the rune rising from its source of blood and hope
will vouch that there is nothing in it
that does not genuinely live in other poets
on this obstinate and cold earth
of rejections.