Summer Solstice


The white sheet of paper, harsh mirror

gives you back only what you were.

The white sheet of paper speaks with your voice,

your own voice

not the one you like to have;

your music is the life

you wasted.

Perhaps you can regain it, if you want

if you focus on this insignificant thing

that throws you back

to where you started.

You travelled, you saw many moons, many suns

you touched dead and alive,

you felt the young man’s pain

and the moan of the woman

the bitterness of the boy—

everything you’ve felt falls into nothing

if you don’t rely on this void.

Perhaps you’ll find there what you thought was lost;

the stamina of youth, the justified waste of age.

Your life is everything you gave

this void is what you gave
the white sheet of paper.