Won’t you look at me?
There’s much I want you to see.

My face.
My eyes.
My still-youthful body.

Won’t you listen to me?
There’s much I want you to hear.

My thoughts.
My insights.
My poetry.

But I’ve been pleading for so long that I’m sick from it all.

Unable to focus my eyes.
Unable to sit down.
Unable to eat.

Sick.

In the night, there’s noise even in quiet places.
In the day, there’s so much light.

Everything races.
Everything knocks.
Everything presses in and crowds.

But I will be plucked from the nest of sound and fever.

My histrionics.
My madness.
My.

I will see the moon and the mist drifting over rainy hollows.

The horses.
The fireflies.
The loamy smell.

I will be plucked and quieted.

There will be the stillness of the other shore.

The ceasing.
The calming.
The pacifying.

I will be free under the moon.
Free to be the moon.

Gone in joy and alive again.