Pomegranate

This dry tree
how has it arranged itself so well
so well    under the rain    to stand up?
The pomegranate that’s hanging
why should someone squeeze      who knows nothing?
Why the rain that should rain down in this poem doesn’t rain?
And life     this short lullaby       finally puts me to sleep
on a page that spent a life in I don’t know
How many times should I write
the poem     that I’ll never write?
I’m sure    London’s blood group
which most likely is O or
doesn’t match mine
because I keep hitting the rain     keep getting wet
What ecstasy revolves round this
thought that’s in my mind
I wish someone came
to stop this Dervish that keeps twirling in my head
the rain that keeps raining no longer comes to my poem
This cursed beast
has brought tears to all eyes
This grand inquisitor
who drags so much out of the clouds over London
Is someone idling up there
or is it true
that it’s still raining?

We all die
so nothing ends   
what a shame

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