My ink is running out
The voices around me fading
My eyes have turned inward
Upon their sockets
Searching through the dusty boxes of my mind
Ancient wisps of memory
Forgotten leftovers of life
My fingers are cold against my cheek
My eyes stung by the wind
Sleep grows as she grows around me
Cocooning me in her warmth
Holding me tight against her breast
Bearing me through those invisible gates
That will close behind me forever...
Friday, March 07, 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
3 comments:
You should consider submitting to Word Catalyst magazine, read about it at PWB. This poem really shows you have talent.
Still loving this poem. It will be included in PWB's July Poetry Collection, posted on July 13th.
Thank you for being a part of PWB.
I like the tone of this, haunting but not frightend, slightly melancholy but accepting. This could be a mode of approaching many kinds of "death" in our lives.
p.s. It's great that you have a Keats quote on your blog -- I love Keats!
Post a Comment