(A name you like saying)

Dostoyevsky clearly understood

The workings of the human mind.

But there were times when he wished he didn’t.


You read it

In bright summer sunshine

On the back of a pony

And could look up

And escape

The hatchet of despair.


I read it

When it was raining,

In fifty page instalments

Like a daily flagellation.

When I looked up

The rain

Blinded my eyes in tears.

Only your bare foot

Saved me from drowning.


They say Dostoyevsky

Was influenced by Dickens

But went in much deeper

Than he had ever dared to

Though still could not dare

Anything but a happy ending

Of sorts.


Happy endings

Spread like a plague,

A cushion

At the bottom of the pit

That doesn’t completely stop the fall.


Sad endings

Are easier to write

Than to read

That is why

Good writers make bad human beings

And vice versa.


My crime was to love you,

My punishment, being unable to tell you.

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