Variations of Mourning

Sadness and contemplation.

Dulcet tones whisper depression –

of angry fists that bite at the moon on a low haze.

Volume: up. Blink. Destroy that

whole foundation built on colourless memories,

almost chasing steam for a pick-up.

Then it’s health and respite

carries it passenger –

if only for a false reflection of time.

I left the shattered shades of the sun

upon the garden to the left,

where I hadn’t seen you,

and I’d missed you amongst your roads.

Only when peace had docked

and unfolded

does the mourning return.

Not ‘why happiness?’

But ‘what happiness, where?’

Like tears, we drench out sad reality

with escapism in savage paint;

we buy books to read away our sins,

forgetting mourning lurks behind

our outward-turned backs.

Then sunlight is a breath before the darkness.

It forgoes memories, drenches hope

with some new flicker –

horizons on the insides of lashes.

Eyelashes. They curl like your quiff.

And breathe. It passes and it returns,

it flows and it stills. My heart: she

drums never to my own faulty footsteps.

The moon is blue and black with tepid craters

in my thoughts. Can’t find the line – this way –

and anger has stronger hands.

The End

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