Poem

The busses come
and the busses go.
I've fallen ill.
A river is flowing
and has flowed.
I've eaten a meal
better than most others,
bringing light to a fraction
of the evening,
but when she failed
to tell me truth,
it was dark once again.
I broke the window,
shattered glass,
clarity lost.
A draft blows through my mind.
I want to scream into the ear
that does not listen.
I want to be stabbed
in the streets of Berlin
and bleed to death
in your arms.