April
24, 1984
9:18 p.m. 
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
Purposeless Verse
Verses stacked neat - the ends of the papers meet
Live though all of life as one turn of the page
Rereading one's dreams and one's nightmares
And reliving the process of age
As the papers multiply
With a tear in the eye
One recounts one's repression or rage
What is it one's writing
What writing is this
Is the life still as one with the page
Page one paged a purpose
A ripe fruit beneath the surface
Enlightening, eager for veracity
Page two painted truth
But canvassed tarnished beauty
Rich ripeness with time rots the fruit.
Verses piled in disarray - papers
every which way
Call humanity erratic : sublime
Research one's dreams and one's nightmares
And please make a note of it this time
As the feeling decreases
With a tear in the eye
But remember one can't tear a page
What scribes wrote wry richness
What scribbles are these
Is each depression another small stage
Page three pulled a partition aside
Wiped all one's tears when one cried
Questioning: not all truth escapes
Page four fought the lonliness
Embraced new found shapes
But dropped them when feeling their heaviness
Verses so rare - yeilding to power
Turn out the light as you close the door
copyright 1999-2005 by Michael F. Nyiri
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