Our Demise
Night stars rend the
moon
in two,
with
ragged
sword
of experience.
Her
edges raw and
sharp
are bleeding
a
sad melody; a
refrain
I have known.
Yet
her beauty sings
through,
her light,
barely
dimmed by
her
sorrow, which leaks
from
wounds, of
rape
and plunder, of our
land,
for profit, for greed;
for our demise.
There is a deep pain, within a
desolate
hollow, where a
heart
once lived,
before
it was given away,
without
words to describe,
either
presence or absence.
Words
such as void,
Cavernous,
bare.
Emptiness
sticks to the senses.
Smell
of rose turned to musk.
Taste
neither sweet nor savoury, but
acrid,
caustic, burning.
Hear
the echo of
poignant
silence as it
throbs
inside,
aching
chest walls, where
ribs
expand and contract,
against
a vast vacancy . . .
Perhaps,
my heart will be returned,
to
my time weary soul.
Perhaps,
I shall befriend this quiet,
Perhaps,
there is peace within this silence.
Buildings
tall, bombed and burning,
flames
like daggers,
stab
the walls, lick her wounds,
yet,
she bleeds.
Below
this agony, shoe deep in ash,
a
solitary child swings,
on
a red and yellow swing set, oblivious
to
the destruction, the desolate, the damned.
Plumes
of smoke, black as ink,
exhale
in deadly coughs, into
the
sky, the day, the death toll, the dark; and
a red and yellow swing set.
Jan Coulter is a poet living in the Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia, Canada. Writing from the heart, Jan weaves landscape into words, with a considered approach to detail. She is a retired cabinet maker and chair seat caner, having made fine furniture in The Arts and Crafts tradition for over 30 years.
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