There are no dead.

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There are no dead like your dead.
Relentlessly impaled on your memory,
her tiny hand, his frozen bicycle,
his uniform in the doorway, halo’d in
morning light saying “I’ll be alright”,
her scarf thrown aside in the sunshine.
There are no dead.

There are no wounds like your wounds.
Bathed as a child in crimson shadows
his unseeing eyes plead for life,
her skirt in the glade, not running,
not breathing, he is no longer your child
she is returned to the circling universe.
There are no dead.

There are no scars like your scars.
Releasing the hand you trust and trust.
In some strange faith you condemn yourself.
You stand back; the fleeting touch is gone.
Your breast is empty; he is on his own.
She is by herself; he is already flown.
There are no dead.








◄ .... walkin'

hour-glass ►


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Tommy Carroll

Mon 11th Aug 2014 20:26

Hi Chris, It has taken a couple of readings- and no doubt more- to get the gist of this work, obvious as it maybe. It resounds, almost a war poem, almost. Tommy

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M.C. Newberry

Fri 8th Aug 2014 14:59

Extraordinarily affecting in its use of suggested tragedy and loss set out in words
that are like ghosts...drifiting across the mind to leave a haunting memory of what was and
what might have been.

Graham Sherwood

Thu 7th Aug 2014 11:33

Chris I think this is the best piece of work I've read of yours. The clarity wrapped in brevity is outstanding.

Well done.


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Marianne Louise Daniels

Thu 7th Aug 2014 09:55

excellent poem!

I do admire your work - the words are like dreams remembered as if through a mist - connected by not wanting to let go, not wanting to not understand.... hope that does not sound trite... it is the feeling that stirs when I read your work.

Marianne :)

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Rose Casserley

Thu 7th Aug 2014 09:38

fantastic poem.x

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