A home-made tattoo wrapped up in a scroll

(not of honey and milk, but indian ink)

saw 50 summers, but winters no more.

A cooling board smoothes away pain.

An epithet formerly scrawled upon walls;

a roughly-inked alias on a right wrist

provided the title required to assist in

identification of you.

I will search for your words in your final abode...

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`

I walk from room to room
and try to catch a glimpse of you,
but all that I could see,
are muted shadows playing tag.

Sunlight catches visions
of days now stored in memory
and with your recent passing,
you climbed upon the misty crag.

The kitchen tap still leaks,
we've fixed that oft and time again;
your trusty stove still works,
those smells a...

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`




Once, so many years ago,
such a distant place and clime;
moments of thought and life were shared,
each move in perfect time.

Words in unison, hearts pulsed,
so intimate each gesture;
each expression fears repulsed,
companions of great measure.

Now it seems we're worlds apart;
nothing more in common share.
The last desired thing to start,
last threads ...

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Is that why?

I bled

for so many years with the pain reminiscent of childbirth

and cried with longing and loss

the empty hollow and the useless womb

Is that why

I ached

and found each day weighed heavier than the last

and my body dried and drained

and my world shrank to a parody

Is that why

I killed

Tiny webbed fingers a hea...

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