Friday, 8 April 2011

Noir


Chrysanthemums of wayward photons
Bloom in a patch of broken glass as
Days on the calendar turn into prison cells
Built out of empty space and time.
The balm of sleep no longer soothes
Instead it torments me and sears
Memories of my nightmares
Into my face like Borstal tears.
What price now, all that talk
Of truths shared and held back
Now that your absence is the only
Presence that I am able to feel?
Like the northern star when the sky
Is overcast you are no longer constant
And in the pathless darkness I find
That my centre cannot hold.
Worse of course if you were dead
But better that than living and
Not within my grasp or sight
To rid me of this lonely curse.

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