"Dear Diary, . . . " I began to write.
And then I remembered I forgot
That vultures roam these pseudo-skies,
Sinister, beaded daggers and flapping cloaks of black,
To pick at the scraps of my skeletal thoughts.
Horror of horrors my fingers recoiled,
Curled away from the accusing keys.
"Dear Diary," I wrote anyway,
"Dear, dear Diary," I wrote.
Why, my fingers dance and stop.
Shall I write, or shall I not?
I TELL my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Alas, yes. Russian snows and whistling draughts
Prove too dreadful; they come a'trampling.
"Dear Diary,"--a last endeavour but,
How strange.
All that deliberating
And now, why, I can't remember now,
What I wanted to confide
And type and air for all to see.