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.