I walked up on some bright evening
The sounds of the village in my ears,
Voices prickling with the intensity
Of old men, making good their promise
To not go gently into the night,
The hush of the heavens above my head
A few arrayed stars marking out
The bounds of men, the faint
Glistening edge of the sun
Making the presence of the world
Seem thin and narrow, a squinted
Place, an awkward squinted place
And I drew in the air, clearing my
Head, and I thought of the man
Who once told me that the last
Thing the world needs is another book,
he, trim-framed and arrogant,
Placing himself as a the solution to
His own pointless problem
And I thought of the volumes and pages
That dot the sky like stars, endless, seemingly
Like an ocean of men’s ideas and women’s thoughts
The crashing of waves, clusters of cloistered keepsakes
Bookends washing up on the shore by the harbour,
Floating folios spewing their ink onto the gravel
Mixing the tide-spill with hushed voices and dead thoughts
Thought no more by dead men
And I wondered if there was just one book, only one
A drawstring that pulls us in, makes us fit.
I sat up there for some time, and said
It's just one book, its all one book.
I made my way back down, stumbling in the
Evening light, hearing the men again talking
Their way through life, laughing at old Evans
When he lost his way home and slept in Geraint's
Shed, they slapped their legs and the
Table and howled, and I said, I think you
should write that down.
"It's so mysterious, the land of tears." 
Originally Posted by Riesa
Why?
I have to go to bed without reading the winning poem.
