slam etc.

Ah! For the days when writing flowed,
When knowledge was detached;
When all was pure philosophy,
The truth still tightly latched.

But now each word is painful.
Embarassment shrouds each line.
Before it was vicarious,
But now the soul is mine.

I wrote of love and hate and fear
And wrote of these with fervor.
Oh how easy it was then
When I was mere observer.

Conclusions that I came to then,
Correct, but somehow shallow,
Were painless and imperfect prints
Set in melting tallow.

But as life's sculpting hands have cut
Deep ridges and sharp rips,
The words that would descdribe it well
Can't get beyond my lips.

(6/7/80)