Wednesday, 17 July 2013

HEARING THINGS


I am a forest of bone cracking under the weight of life.
In the dark I shift from lantern to blade
Lonely as a moon.

We are hearts simmering at tables, worn  to ghosts,
Our mortality, a crumb - not even that.
We pack bags to go home.

In every loss, a phantom wanders, homeless,
Seeking what cannot be found.
Grief is no cure.

In my palm, a charnel of unborn dead, clamouring.
We wait for them in ransacked rooms.
Hold my hand.  

Death, the party guest, unmasks us all and offers wine. 
Memory’s footsteps murmur in the hall.
A journey ended.

Time, the overseer, slips anchors into  endings.
We carry our last breath with us.
Moored to mists.

My rib cage is a bell tower, shaken by its peal,
knocking breath. The sound of ripping paper,
its final note.



Sculpture by Aatje Gronveldt

























More of my poetry can be read on http://www.odyssey.com, http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html















 




 

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