I always return to T.S. Eliot

I always return to T.S. Eliot
self-scourged and wounded,
limping for having stomped
full conscious on some thorn.

I always return to Mr. Eliot
stern and grey suited,
not given, they say,
to excess. Dry and flinty, even.

There's no escaping it.
I always return to him,
for his are the words I have made
my litany;
solace at the bitter empty times,
and damned good advice too
not merely the lovely cradle
of rocking words that sooth.

I always return to T.S. Eliot
I have learned these things:
the joy of emptiness is the
possibility of positive construction
and too much self-discussion
becomes self-destruction.