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When you laugh

It is waking at night
Beneath a waterfall

Seeing clear through
The veil

To a multitude of stars
the wolf howls, no reply.
the clock ticks but never chimes.

who outlasts the tomb?

we walk the halls
to remember footsteps,
shout at the walls, why!

who do walls remember?

whispers and laughter,
the weight of every sigh.
the shadow that weeps
and the child who cries.

the wolf howls, no reply.
the clock ticks but never chimes.

what do windows see?

faces pressed close, lovers kissing.
the tears from a bleeding sky
when the rain
taps gently for all lovers.

walls echo laughter and longing,
and windows dream
of time gone.

the clock is ticking.

who outlasts the tomb?

the wolf howls....
each heartbeat a plea against the void.
The rift
was caused
by the absent hand
I lost
In the darkest room

Cyclic tears
Of love and loss
For those that
Live

Buried with
Young memories
In the back rooms
Of our old life

Scorched tape
rests with
Faded slides
And static

By Darren Wall
The lack of support during the most difficult times, strips the joy from the most precious moments I shared.
Knee deep in the weeds
To the sound of water

Leeched skin drains
In the River Cole

Excited barks
In the clay banks

Rodents tease
The old black dog

Long grass forts
And half mile trenches

The quest for sticklebacks,
Minnows and chubs

Neighbour wars
Over fresh cut turf

Jumper goals hide
The weakest squash

The unmatched
And unskilled teams

Played till the streetlights
Brought us home.

By Darren Wall
Old memories hit the hardest
  Aug 27 KarmaPolice
3va
Skin,
Can we not look past it?

When you look at someone,
is that all you see, and think?

Their skin.

My skin.

I am more than my skin.

We are more than this skin.

More than its melanin
I am not my skin.

I am so much more.

More than this colored skin.
KarmaPolice Aug 27
Tears of wasted reels
Fall for the fiction
Dry eyes to reality
No sorrow left for me.

By Darren Wall ©
KarmaPolice May 16
I stumbled upon it—
this ruin, veiled in ivy,
its ribs of stone strangled
by nature’s lace.

A withered door hangs
on one iron thread—
the last breath of smiths
dressed in oxide.

Fractured silence beckons
childish will to explore.
Danger wrapped in lichen,
blight decays the frame.

Dense fog dulls the raven’s
black wings—set the tone.
Moss-laden windows,
sinew stripped from bone.

To be continued....

By Darren Wall
It's incomplete, a work in progress.
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