Thursday, 30 April 2015



Tomorrow I won’t visit
your piles
of white dust; though twisting guilt
will tell me I must, and I won’t
bring roses
or lilies to lay in the dust
at the closing hours
of a wet, spring day
you will spend,
like this one,
by my side, 
rushing and weaving
from the corners of my mind to encompass
my every breath, gouging and pulling at the
very depths of my power to forget
you, and I
a child again
will let you find me wherever I am.

And know one will know
you walk with me tomorrow,
heavy on my aching back,
an invisible,
curling, cloak of black tied chokingly tight.

Know one will know
how you’ll haunt me for nights, now
and the few days that lie ahead,

no one
will hear the words you once said,
but me, behind my time-warp smile,
every step ‘til you’re gone,
a tiny mile,
to conquer 
as I feel you stronger, 
more heavily, 
for a little while.

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