Too often in this gaping land <br />I’ve wandered helpless, like some man <br />Whose art was squandered in the drought, <br />Bereft within, burnt dry without <br />Both parched and strangled, word and deed <br />Cast out from hope, embraced by need <br />Exiled from all that beauty saw <br />And lost to all I knew before. <br /> <br />Small wonder, then, that nature’s call <br />Excites me less or not at all, <br />That harsh intrigues of leaflessness <br />And trees grotesque intrigue me less. <br />This brown and barren artistry <br />Calls forth some emptiness in me <br />To whisper all that sadness seems <br />And leave scrawled silence in sad dreams. <br /> <br />7 September 1976<br /><br />David Lewis Paget<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scrawled-silence/
