A scoring of bucket-dreams, ticked off to each
point of light reflected, refracted
in skein-thin slicks sitting some kind of greasing
splitting to scores of sores therein, a spectrum
of what might be hope, what may be shovelled -
in gassing, or shocking, or simply talking
behind backs turned and inebriated – my head
remains in hands I am no longer certain
are my own – the glass swells nonetheless to you
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January 24th, 2012 at 11:38 am
Lovely vizualisation in the first two stanzas, Benjamin, and the third brings you back down to earth. Light reflections, refractions, greasing, splitting… beautiful, with ugliness therein? Drinking a toast to someone who has died…
January 24th, 2012 at 9:48 pm
Your imagery is so beautiful! I also love the way the alliterations and rhymes tease but never quite deliver. Amazing!
January 28th, 2012 at 9:35 am
Beautiful and inspiring words. Thanks too for visiting and liking some of my posts. I look forward to reading more…
January 30th, 2012 at 2:45 am
Brilliant and inspired. You have a way with language that is somewhat unique.
January 31st, 2012 at 1:03 pm
This holds such a deep pain – having to contain one’s emotions in such a way is well expressed.