A withering wind
Dried up, shrivelled, exposed, weather-beaten,
Wasting away of the body afflicts with decay
The struggle of the day-to-day.
And no quenching can solve
All that was rubbed away, like stains that do not dry
Wither, languish, and decay. People pine away.
A quagmire, this swamp of guilt, regret,
Spilt water, wine: our conscience frets. Forget which itch of memory did the damage.
No transubstantiation this: yoked, ploughed,
Dragged, inchoate; a process has begun.
A work of resistance, an inception into art
Of all the heart-wrung soul that is left in me.,
A lamenting, a fading away, quite.
Welcome now obscurity, shadow,
Winter tree stripped,
Bent in the vortex of time.
A modulation of a voice, a volte-face:
A variation of mood, No conjugation of thine
Has such bad intent as to awaken from sleep
The legions of demons that laugh as we weep.
Declining back to the exoskeleton,
That shadow lies behind the sun.
And yet we take such passing grace in diminutives – auras, zephyrs, gentle breezes,
Whispers of what we were, and could be again.