Poem #34 (I don't actually remember when I wrote this. I think I wrote it in Russia)

The living and the dead, we always
want to know where we are going,
how we are dying, and how we will live,
and how they will live too.

And I am also anxious for life,
to learn how to live, to learn
how to move beyond the simple breaths
and pulses and steps and hope
to live among the living as if I was one...

As if...
I said that because sometimes,
or most times I think that I'm like
a dead man living, resurrected, or simply
revived to walk again, full of grey sorrow
unexplained by the passing days.

I feel my faith and my sorrow, and times
pray to not to have been born, but now
that's impossible, and so does
being born again. So I walk, stand, sit
and lie, sometimes alone, sometimes not
in a melancholy form.
And when I feel
caught I write a few lines:
solo soul looking
for solace, looking for a pair of eyes
that look back at him, seeing the
india ink lines, seeing some beauty,
someone to brush off the dust off my body,
the dirt from my clothes, who can love
a fresh creation, taken from the earth.