Poetry

Blockade

The wall of brick and bone and sweat

stands before me, blocking my path

to the end, the finish line and the emptiness after,

for what is after

I’ve achieved all my dreams?

Will it be enough to come to that finality,

the conclusion upon which I linger most,

or will the fire inside

continue to burn until I pass the herd

to stand on my own,

hearing my own trumpets and roars,

my heat beating its celebration

not of my ego,

but simply that I can still go on,

still progress,

still do what I love

and not let boredom brick me up

inside my own head.

Poetry

Story time. Discuss

The queen saw, pointing at,

while tears dripped

freely from her eyes.

 

They led her over

to him, helped her kneel

beside. As an afterthought,

 

piled leaves over his lower

half in an attempt

to preserve his modesty.

 

‘It’s over. It’s finally over.’

‘No. It’s just beginning.’

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.