Out of silence, out of a point, warmth flows.
Acheron bends within me.
Warmth shrouds my limbs
in cold, antiseptic, light.
Sun's warmth wanes.
I was a boy once. I laughed too.
Now laughter burns
like eyes fighting sleep.
I was a boy once. I laughed too.
Now laughter burns
like eyes fighting sleep.
I was a boy.....I laugh,
I cry.
II
The high ground was blessed
with one hundred eyes,
not a cloud in these sombre skies.
It still stinks, drawing its share
of carrion.
The imp tacitly passes.
Cold eyes and colder hearts
scorn the remains.
The high ground was blessed
with one hundred eyes,
not a cloud in these sombre skies.
It still stinks, drawing its share
of carrion.
The imp tacitly passes.
Cold eyes and colder hearts
scorn the remains.
1 comment:
Although I'm more likely to remember McVeigh's crude remark "It's 168 to 1" ... I think Gerry Spence would like your poem David.
Post a Comment