my pain can be measured

by the flickering flames of

fire burning in the corner

of my tear stained eye

 

it must be measured by the

angles of the rays of sunlight

and moonlight as they pass

over the wilderness of the moors

 

my pain is there in the distance

as the blackbird files to find pies

and near in the flock of

sheep counting till they go to sleep

 

it is in the spots on dalmatians

running down the road in single file

and in the tails of nine cats

staring at the world from a tree

 

my pain is in the well of oil

that spurts from the burnt crust

of sliced earth leaping from the

frying pan into a funeral pyre

 

my pain is here, it is there

it is high, it is low

it has no end and no beginning

i can see it in the stars

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