Inside Out

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There’s an end to everything:
Birds in the trees, music, family. friends,
Plangent, too deep to keep,
Tempests flare in the mind of man
Foreshadowing those terrible realisations
That we too have followed this same cliff path
Guided by nightly luminosity, stuck in the sheer darkness
Of the day. When mother, father, lover, friend
Have turned away and swooned towards the moon in triumph
Or despair. Or on days when those steps we climbed
In childhood into the loneliness of dream,
Creak and creak again like the echoes of a scream.
And nothing is, as nothing seems
And all retains the insubstantiality of dream.


poetry is... ►


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Stephen Atkinson

Sat 10th Oct 2020 08:40

Just your usual excellent standard, John.

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D.W. Hamilton

Sat 10th Oct 2020 02:44


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