dark poetry

all quiet along the potomac
who loves the rain
this ancient silver bowl of mine
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
it tells of good old times
perhaps it is no matter that you died
what do i owe to you
the agony of having too much power
when, full of warm and eager love
there is no escape by the river
the air is full of dawn and spring
if i should die, think only this of me
the hypocritic days
in the dark and peace of my final bed