Tuesday, June 29, 2010



A concrete world; gray sky
over fields of slate

Stone steps, puddles
collected in cracks

These are the sights
in his last minute

Lying in a black, great coat
life leaking into pools

The image fades on
brown leaves

Now a spiral as
his soul retreats

Spinning up, looking
down on his shell

Crooked, bent
at the base of steps

Leading from a playground
in a humorless land

Birds circle above
mingling with his soul

But his mind's eye scans
the stretched city of stone

To the outskirts, what is
left of the earth

Far away fields of green
trees and mountains
guarding the sea

From the dead place where
he lived and died
on a cold January day

Life leaking
soul fleeing

thoughts on what
he missed.

Originally posted on January 17, 2006 on Myspace.

Another poem of mine. I quite like this one.

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