THE WRITERS POST
VOLUME 11 NUMBER 1
Pale morning damp, brown.
Once I knew a man
Whose eyes gazed downward,
Desperate to not be seen,
His steps well hid ‘neath trampled leaves,
His breath, a crow in winter’s cold,
A hovering shadow above melting snow.
An endless pain, broken body, spirit sore.
Wishing perhaps not to breathe anymore,
Wasting in his day what was left of the sun,
Lingering at night on thoughts years undone,
Belted by dreams –
Dying, he seemed.
Far away across the sea the wind wails,
An empty sunless morn.
A near ghost who never asked to be born,
Homeless, yet homesick, in his calm and confused rage,
The wars he waged in knowing defeat, Bannished from his own life,
His heart, a crucible of human history boiling in strife.
The Writers Post
founded 1999, based in the US.
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