half life
Life turns on a dimemost days, and gives no change
but every now and then
the changes ring a carillon
above my head.
so loud the dead themselves
sit up, take note and start to talk.
I write pretty words
that sing of sunsets,
paint the golden path of dawn,
a tapestry of delicate delight
that hides the bitter neatly
in the sweet, enticing you
to come and play,
to wander in the gentle dreams,
illusions that I give away
and sometimes drown in
when the bones of truth
crush hard against
the endless moment
I inhabit
Sweet echoes of mortality
are drumming on the anvils in my head
and somewhere, buried deep
I find there is a yes and no
a stop and go, a walk, don’t walk
all dancing their duality
across the single page
I write on.
The sound of one hand
clapping is heard
by just one ear
and only one eye burns
with just one tear.
I do not usually put poetry here but i was checking my collection at poem hunter. This was written before the visitor in my head made itself felt, but perfectly describes many of the moods I have passed through since waking up with my left side on holiday and it resonates with the frustrations I have already felt this morning trying to complete tasks better done with all of me. i want me back so badly.
Comments (1)