430 and 431

O Pointlessness Of Being that is mine,

who wants not but to sleep—for what, I ask?

What gift does sleep present, for which you whine

in every moment under every task?

You also wanted food once, I recall;

but no more, for awhile now, it seems.

You once, too, were at once the willing thrall

of anything shown upon TV screens.

But no more, my dear Pointlessness. You reach

for nothing but the emptiness of sleep.

When will this want your hopelessness, too, breach?

When will we less than even this sleep keep?

Dear Fellow, carry on. At least be pressed

by this wish for the pointlessness of rest.

~~~

I never got to show you anything.

You only get whatever I’ve become.

No endlessness of re-remembering

can really tell where someone has come from.

No chambers, churches, homes, nor parks are yours

that ever have been mine, tho they are me;

and not in endless monologues nor tours

could I convey what I wish you could see.

As this is so, we must live more than we

have ever lived before our stories met;

and chapters yet untold must better be

than all that we have ever known as yet.

I loved the songs you never got to hear.

So let us sing new songs, even more dear.