She’s silent now
so terribly so,
hands clasped together
for an infinity or so
and slowly turning to dust
is a whisper inside wood.
Those last minutes
were creaking and cracking,
stairs and sobs and more silence.
r.l.w
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
Sometimes all we have
are dreams like aniseed
a strange moment
we can't quite identify.
Or enjoy.
I breathe in stale air
sleep on sheets
rucked up beneath me
wake to lines imprinted
on slack skin.
I twist into them
sweet and bitter dreams
that go together
better than I sleep.
These are long nights.
Another bedtime,
slipping into darkness
or slipping away
who's to know the difference
in the light of day.
r.l.w
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
I fell asleep in the new year
to new rain, heavy and haunting
as if it knew what was coming
– what had come before.
One year can be no better
or worse than another
and death still comes in
with the tide that the sunrise
washes over again and again.
When the rain stops, life continues
no better or worse
the sun sets again
a new day like any other.
I’ll just say my goodbyes now
just in case – like before –
I’m not around when you go.
r.l.w
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC