Poetry

From bones it grows

The night is fading and you can taste morning in the air.

The vague shapes swallowed by the darkness

awaken again as the flowers begin to open.

Not skulking monsters as they sounded, shrieking,

without the light,

but the bones of buildings covered in green carpets,

rich and plush and full of a life that was once

cut back hard, considered a weed,

a pest, a threat to those who hoped to dwell.

Time’s mark is clearer than footprints

and has no patience

for those who refuse to see it.

It grasps them all with tight fingers,

pushing them aside so the first ones

to arrive at the waterhole can have their fill

and flourish

as they should have for all these years.

 

Poetry

The end of the emporium

Neat golden lettering on marbled paper

bleached

by time and its sun.

A pair of scales hangs in mid-air,

weighing the light

of the lamps flickering in distaste.

Half rotten and full of cobwebs,

an enchanted gimmick

made

to float and sing

and make the room smell

of sweet perfumes.

Scraping off the sign has such finality.

We watch,

turning up the collars of our long coats

as we try to warm our ears.

Poetry

The Light that is Dark

 

In the night when the moon is high,

light brightens pale pebbles.

A guide to home.

Yet knowing home is

not where you’re needed,

not where you’re wanted,

not where you are even allowed to exist,

why do you still try to return?

Do you believe he will listen,

that your voices can override hers?

I know you want to believe in him.

But he was the one who left you here.