Jewel Poem (#5)

No inner fire plagues me anymore. Any fire that existed is gone.
It’s my chance to make haste, before the sun dies and evaporates.
No more doubt about my talent. Any chance to succeed is gone.
It’s my life now to create, and I never wanted anything fake.
No way to know what’s important. Any old poet seems to know.
It’s my way of making change, before anything bad happens to me.
No understanding of my essential stress. Any person who cares is dust.
It’s my way of saying thank, and I really hate society’s guts.

All inner fires are burning bright. Some real fire can be felt.
There’s something profound to be held, and I really hate to dash.
All doubts about my talent died. Some chance is really God itself.
There’s something superficial about all poems, but that’s just how it goes.
All ways of knowledge are inside. Some old poet is dying slowly.
There’s something changing deep in me, but anything bad is something evil.
All understanding is within my body. Some person who cares is important.
There’s something magical I am wanting, but I’ll die long before that.

It seems appropriate that solar chronology should have a predominance over vital time at such a time when going forward is reliant upon regrowth.