I Write Poetry

Oh, how I crave the comfort of the naive man!
Who is accepted like a brother, in open arms.
Nothing there is black.
Nothing there is unknown.

Oh, how I seek the desire of a naive man!
To be something where nothing roams.
Nothing there is harsh.
Nothing there is spoiled.

God, how I crave the comfort of the naive religious man!
But I am descended into nothingness.
All here is dark.
All here is unknown.

And what is left but dust and bones?