Void a void

The stalwart walking chalk outline,
a bone-white sillage swirling behind,
in a dramatic paisley murmur of aloof
pursuit; his barely throbbing corsage

sheds its wet petals for a burgandy-
pasted path of disenchantment; my
steps slow in the crimson sludge, as
I desperately grasp at the beckoning

cloud; chasing Plutonic perfection,
what I was meant to be, always one
step ahead of me; a void to fill a void,
a voice to fill an echo, a fate feigning

fulfillment, in the unbroken dust of
an unlined palm; each day brings
hope of reconciliation, each mourn
welcomes his ruby breadcrumb trail

art: Portrait of a weary ghost by M Tumulty

Wordless

he turned the corner, a slow maudlin gait
what is he thinking, a sick father’s fate
his head low hanging, collecting his thought
perhaps he’s tricking, this large morbid lot
always the teaser, his typical ploys
surely the answer, we’re gullible toys
burning subsides with, new hesitant hope
he steps within reach, wordless I cope
he looks in our eyes, put up to the ruse
begging and pleading, he’ll not disabuse
our skill was peerless, no breath is now drawn
so says the doctor, and my daddy’s gone

art: by Ivana Besevic

 

Rolling hills and butterflies

He plods along
his head hung low,
his past and future
he drags in tow

And dreams as hope
then slowly dies,
of rolling hills
and butterflies

With a steady gait,
this fool of time,
just plods along
life’s hellish climb

And left alone
he bears his wait,
he bares his soul,
and bears his hate

Thus in his mind
he wants to hide,
with wings of dust
o’er pastures wide

Until his steps
lead him one day,
where he can go
to fly away