Sometimes the ache is unendurable.
Born upon the tide of loneliness
The need is hurled ashore
A castaway,
And lies among the sea-wrack of my soul.
Pounded by the surges of the world
It lies inert and motionless.
The night is coming when no man shall hope.
Only the burning sands defile the lips,
For who shall succour them?
The careful hands, though curled, are empty now.
With every breath I draw
The need is wracked;
With every sigh it lies
A-quivering
Transfixed with mocking arrows of despair.
And yet it will not die.
(Undated, 1961?)
