In that quiet innocence
its rhythm.
When in waking
he feebly reaches to clear
his soul
or dreads the fading hour
and its haunts
stealing night after night
and fear not the cobwebs
the dream webs
cluttering and cobbling
under covers and curtains
for a moment
that she might be in peace
her beside her curse
despite his curse.
As it is above
there is no guilt in such a little death
a crushing in life
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When you have baggage
So does your other
And you both face the hour of the wolf
Cost and Effect
No-one's picking up their cloaks
The concert ended
Last night
The black place has bended
Not quite right
It is as if the price of comfort
And that of suffering
Are neither enough to wake
And return
From the iron bed
Which is more of one
Than the other
But still both
While there was a tempest
It did lead to solace
But tempest it remained
Always in and with
And under
The price? one asks,
What have you in your pocket?
Then I shall indeed owe you
For theirs is not just the cloaks
But all that was contained therein
On Bitterness
The stick and the wax
cannot tell of bitterness or of joy
nough that the taste of darkness and foolishness
become something
Do not you wander
from what was wrote
Hate that taste
Or do not -selah
What has beset you does not impoverish
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First published
December 7, 2019 7:21 pm
Paper Screams 