Sickened, churning in my stomach
Like a nail –
Someone drowning out the silence
With their pointless speeches of what and where
And who and when
But no why’s.
Feelings fading like the night sky in the morning
The raven’s hair glittering as he waits
In the rain
Waiting, waiting, waiting for something
Or someone
To fill his black feathers with warmth –
Some senseless somebody to sew the thread
I am sick now; sick with impatience
My foolish ways have led me so far –
The understanding we had has disappeared
And what’s left now but a phony tear?
A stone for my pillow
And a handful of thieves
As they steal, steal, steal
A loaf of bread to feed my starving needs.
'The Wound', a poem by Alison Brady
- January 22, 2011
- schmelison
- No Comments
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