Poetry

In the damp misty morning of uncertainty, The streetlights mournful hum is lost
To the slow sweeping of the silent street cleaner…

I can remember you now,
Standing silently,
With your hair gently flowing…

The old mill stood majestically in the sun beaten world,
Wood splintered dry, portraying an era that had flourished long before.
Her millstones would never turn to the rhythm of crushed grain…

Or create the beads of sweat that roll silently
Down an old man’s back.

My silent warriors have returned,

With their gallant cries and muted groans.

Again, they scale impregnable barriers,

With lives that were once their own…

Sitting in my room cigarette in hand,

a candle flickering to the breath

of each life long beat of time,

I wonder thoughtfully if its mine…

My body, thrown into battle by the invisible,
Eating my strength from inside.
Causing my mind to wander from…