Tuesday, January 1, 2013

The dry wells

A man dwarved in black came.

"Murder! This is murder!" the boy said.
The mother hushed and kiss his forehead;
before sending him off to sail into the sea,
only the image of him dancing and jingling on the mound of earth, remains in memory.

for whom is the rose cut?
only a prickle of blood,
which tips from the thorn, and colours the leaf.
milled regrets make the worst flour,
seared heart hardens while charred promises turn to ashes.
what is then left for the cutlery?

neither everything or all.
the wind whirrs, the waves curl.
the eyes close, the waters fall.
the words said, the feelings hurled.

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