THANKS
Coarse his voice, manner gruff, carriage haughty,
Hands decade’s toil worn, cut, broken.
Dues overpaid yet sought no refund,
Accolades hard-earned never came,
And ’twas when no more he spoke
Then canard’s fodder, they would not mourn.
Ember
EMBER
Weary hand finds eleven
Quiet
Save her whisper,
“Closer, ’tis not so late
Let savage winter chill your raging doubts.”
Stoke fading ember emblazoned on it,
I
I am with you
With you now
And I will make you dream again.
Hear Me Now?
Rest thine ear on cumulus
Drifts beneath thee,
Hear my solemn words spoke
‘Ere you left.
Know them now their truth?
I Won’t Look
She forced her eyes away in subtle defiance. She wouldn’t be complicit in their malefactions — her possessions strewn across the floor, an inventory now ensuing, items deemed useless, dismissed as junk. What was left they twisted, cajoled, compressed and all done with no shortage of wild contortions, forced it fit into a few small boxes.
She could not cry for what she couldn’t see, but her stomach knew, for it was wrenched and knotted, a familiar plague of late for which she could find no remedy in a bottle or a can.