Wednesday, 17 July 2013


I am a forest of bone cracking under the weight of days.
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 slip through the hall.
A journey ended.

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

My rib cage is a bell tower, shaken by its peal.
Feathered breath heralds a moan of ripping paper.
its final note.

Sculpture by Aatje Gronveldt

More of my poetry can be read on,,



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