A withering wind

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Dried up, shrivelled, exposed, weather-beaten,

Shrunk to the dimensions of a man

This wasting away of the body, began

On the hey-ho-day of a long anticipated holiday

That no quenching ever pleases

That is rubbed away, like stains that dry

In the sun. The evidence disappears.

The minutes, the hours, the years

Wither, languish, decay. Pine away

In this quagmire-swamp of 

Spilt water, wine. I forget which itch

Of memory did the damage.  

Yanked us into the future:

Yoked, ploughed, dragged, inchoate;

A process had begun.

A work of resistance, an inception into art,

That will tear apart memory and desire

Release all the heart-wrung soul that is left in me.

A lamenting for the passing of the light.

Such a long, slow, melancholy sight...

Welcome now obscurity, the shadow behind the sun

Winter tree stripped, 

Trunk bent in the winds of time.

A modulation of a voice, a volte-face:

A variation in rhyme. A turning away.

Surely, no man

Has such bad intent as to awaken from sleep

Those legions of demons who laugh as we weep?


◄ A Commonplace sacrifice of a life

Butterflies alight ►


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Taylor Crowshaw

Wed 24th Oct 2018 14:23

A sombre masterpiece....wonderful, full of atmosphere. Thank you. ❤

Big Sal

Wed 24th Oct 2018 13:47

A solemn stick to prop excellence atop of. .

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