Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2018
We stride again in Summer's preaching
forgetting emptiness for optimism's whole golden form -
just for a moment,

Clothes piled at the foot of the bed catching dustmotes
crying like a silent violence for the arms
that once held the fabric together
and the eyes which stared back & which I'll never see again

There's flowers in the foothills
& Europeans come from across the sea
as per their usual annual custom.
I'm resigned to beautifying marked walls, making tea,
watching the freckles continue to find their way onto my skin
and quietly performing my daily duties.
Carrying cleanliness up the path, back to rugged stone fireplaces and Native carpets rosewood & thistle

(whispering to me vivid, bucolic and incomprehensible images I cannot conjure)

This is my life now, a proud Sisyphus
smoking the sun in, allowing myself brief interior wanderings
to continents being settled by my mind - in softness and in love

                                                           ­              ...Essere a proprio agio
Written by
Connor  23/M/MSH
Please log in to view and add comments on poems