Monday, 21 November 2016
To Forget
I don't recognise love these days.
It appears to me only in tearful gasps
or an eye full of loathing.
The precursors to a smile have atrophied.
Withered and become pitiful things
Like a dog taken one kick too many.
Too far gone. Things more akin now
to snarls of resentment, plaintive wails.
Bared to bite and break the skin.
And so, the remains of any small comfort
putrify. Rotting humours; the old 'black bile'.
A sickly joke to stick in and twist.
It's enough for this that was once a man
in love, that feels death every night.
I don't recognise myself these days.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Paint Poem
Day Thirty I like a poem because it's not like a painting. Because I'll confidently cradle something stainless; hold the exceptio...
-
Day 2 Simple fingers to the string What a little thing to cultivate, unreal as it is; not to be seen or touched but felt, enduring, where so... -
Day Nineteen In our village by the mountain, there lived A man p eople called The Wrestler , It was long ago, when my dad was a kid. He - ... -
So, two weeks in and I'm somewhat surprised to find myself sticking at this poetry malarkey. In fact I'm enjoying it very much. To...
No comments:
Post a Comment