THE SUMMING UP
On the library of my heart they have fed,
the worms of my living,
and now, surfeited, they are dead,
leaving their husks on the pages still unread,
dry, harmless little things
that crumble and shred.
Ambition took the harder crust we dread,
the thick skin on the cover,
and gnawed with slow, relentless tread
the marquee lights for which it craved and glittered,
weaving letter by letter
a shroud embittered.
Love chose the softer, tender part, the bread
of my daily giving,
and made each ritual ahead
a carnage of communion as I bled,
praying for the blessing
I offered, instead.
Knowledge went directly to the core, the thread
that bound my life together,
and bored its way up through my head,
loosening by stages the gold and the red,
until every chapter
I had written, fled.
Now that I have finished with maggots and shed
their dust with some misgiving,
I am glad for the words not said,
for being spared the hungers other men have bred,
in my old age needing
but a tranquil bed.