writing poetry

fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
to come so soon to this imagined dark
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
therefore i may not
some of the hurts you have cured
among the mountains i wandered
since i have felt the sense of death
do the boys and girls still go
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
i am dying
they ask me where i've been