cleft sticks

Home silent and dark
save the spark
of mute TV
and me, alone,
not yet cold.
Amongst a mould
of decayed sins
begins, life again;
pen fighting,
writing each sigh
as the seconds die.

The thought emerges,
it grows, it surges
around my head
until I’ve said
what buckles breath
and mirrors death.

So, darkly diminished
and all but finished,
my spirit’s confusion
fights this bleak conclusion.

Can’t go forward, nor back.

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *