My face is a mask I order to say nothing
About the fragile feelings hiding in my soul.
The day falls down on my shoulders like heavy clouds
Swirling like liquid grey stone, turning and folding in such slow development.
It is part of me and it rolls andit rolls over my writing and my thinking
When she was born she cried and the world rejoiced
Now she should live her life so when she dies the world will cry and she will rejoice.
She will rise and rise like a thin real tissue of the earth
And she will fold and turn and delve and regain some composure.
My mind is covered by ectoplasm
It rises then falls as if dead
Killed by the writing down.