We sat in the sun,
On hard back chairs.
Saying nothing with our stares,
Saying everything.
There were tears on our pages,
Making blurs of all our words.
Above us, only birds
Who forgot how to sing.
We picked the bones,
From our bitter souls.
And in those holes,
We grew our wings.
We reached the same horizon,
On different roads.
Trod in our own footprints,
Played chess with our shadows.
And lost.
© M. H.
This is my latest poem. Started over Christmas and completed only last night, l wanted a particular feel of something that is ending, a marriage, a relationship or a life. But in essence it could also be about a beginning. The only constant in life is dust. We journey with it and produce it every day of our lives. This is simply me sitting down with my dust companion – bunny perhaps? – and acknowledging its place in the world.
I shall be resurrecting some older and some would say better ones in the coming days. Keep a vigil.
Marc's poetry and musings 