Poetry, Uncategorized

Oh, it’s that section of the library, is it?

Books in court,

their words binding the defendant

to the table

wrapping the air with motive,

mystery,

evidence that is pure fiction,

until the jury

stands up and reads

aloud.

The books fall down

blown away,

scattered, pages billowing

like petticoats

in a stiff morning breeze.

Poetry

Ushering footsteps

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.

 

The building cold, a stir of breath,

the air tingles with impatience

while anxiety threatens the grievous theft.

 

A cold stone slab presents itself,

a shuffle of feet, tipping the balance

forward as the clock hits twelve.

 

Visions are strong in this line of work,

hands beckon from beneath

where the bodies quietly lurk.

 

Quiet now, quiet, they surely whisper

remember the promise you made

with your dying younger sister.

 

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.