stricken (Remove filter)
ashes from your urn
Ashen grey is the house of remembering.
Before each portal opens,
your faceless bard swoons.
He strikes a drum of bone and brittle whispers;
With cracked powd’ry fingers,
he inscribes your name in dust.
He etches it longer than it ever was,
the curves of your urn.
You gather there your ashes and nourish my soul.
Sunday 24th November 2024 7:26 am
Recent Comments
Smith Man on buy dexas and xanax pills online in texas telegram @manduraihbudz
7 minutes ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Bonnie Madleen
7 hours ago
Hélène on Letting Go
10 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on BUCKET LIST
11 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Letting Go
13 hours ago
Red Brick Keshner on part savage, part human
13 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Down on my uppers
13 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Weekly WalkaboutsVerse, E.G., Poem 61 of 230: WORSLEY VILLAGE
13 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Anyone For Tennis
13 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Compost
13 hours ago