Sunday, 14 August 2011


Now those eidolic dread horses
have scarred your slumber
and even your furniture
has silent, open mouthed nightmares
of the too soon dead school friends
who never ended their crossings
where there she stoops in shroud
ghastly knelt as in prayer
and you can see through the tricks
of the light that say “she’s there”
your crumpling chest boiling
as the bones in your legs atomize
while those without body cross
the empty room, no need to surmise
that which lies bereft and restless
may yet have something to say
and you are the luckless soul
who lives within their byway

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