Tuesday, 3 December 2013


Come when the street is silent
and there is no witness.
Park your vans.
Raise your ladders.
Bring out the cans
of  white paint.
Blast your blizzard
over me. That’s right.
Obliterate my wings.
My black-brush words.
My martyrdom. That’s right.
You did it before
with bullets and guns.

My mother takes a knife.
Scratches at my burial.
Turns my shroud to dust
until an eye emerges,
 radiant, a skylight in the wall.

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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