I Am Not At All Clear What

I've Thought Of The Last Line Of Some Poems For Years And Tried Them Out, It Wouldn't Work Because The Last Line Was Much Too Beautiful For The Poem.

History Is Where Tensions Were.

Till I, High In The Tower Of My Time Among Familiar Ruins, Began To Cry For Accident, Sickness, Justice, War And Crime, Because All Died, Because I Had To Die. The Snow Fell, The Trees Stood, The Promise Kept, And A Child I Slept.

I Am Not At All Clear What Free Verse Is Anymore. That's One Of The Things You Learn Not To Know.

The Only Way Out Is The Way Through, Just As You Cannot Escape Death Except By Dying. Being Unable To Write, You Must Examine In Writing This Being Unable, Which Becomes For The Present -henceforth?- The Subject To Which You Are Condemned.