The grief would be too large.
I would scream around our routines
begging for release.
I would look upon our food,
the places we would eat,
a hovel shat in by beasts of fields
once walked in and enjoyed,
now ran through and hated
with the ferocity of feet cut on discarded glass.
A blind charge, stumbling, straight into light
once charming, now burning. Our sun and star
now sad fire chewing away on memories,
spitting out seeds it can not erase.
I am here
And You were
here.
The grief would be too large.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
I speak to you in rare moments of sleep
As shipping news speaks of conquered waves
You wear the look of women in coastal cafes
Who have read between the fishing headlines
And cast away puzzle pages
Tea-ring-stained
For weeks
Yet swear daily they do not weep
I speak to you in those rare moments of sleep
As ships speak in song to lighthouse light
Yet I know that when awake
Should in time come the chance
To really speak
My words may not rise
From any squall-safe
Harboured-heart place
But undelivered with the dead litter of shore
Cling as whelk would
To the frame of some drift door
I can neither close
Or in clinging
Allow tides
To erase
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC