poetry

At the Back of Rowden White

21 May 2018

Muffled music from a faraway reality, lost in a room of souls.
Stories heard through rufflings, as pages turn to reveal
lithographic characters – an inked past.

A spacious, well-lit, and illuminated afternoon that
carries one forward through morose times
of dreary, unanswered dreams.

Pondering a future of realised potential, those epic fantasies
that stir the heart and innervate the mind.
But the future is just another place in time.

Inhabited by the likes of us,
equally banal and morally ambiguous
tied down by their own historical amnesia.

Partitioned on grand armchairs as falsetto echoes
learned breaths caress the minds of tomorrow
that are so tortured and at peace with today.

Waiting to be satisfied, we lap at bitter acceptance
whose sweet murmrings quench, and quietly
slide to numb our throats.

A cough,
transmitting our perpetual disease,
denying, drifting, a melody now
deafening.


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