Kicking Stones

A voice coloured distantly

through the water of memory;

Fingers through shadows like the mist

meandering breaths along a black creek,

Until in me comes the subtle tongued sliver

of your voice…

 

 

In Dark alleyways under the mirror lit moon-

I Saunter rugged corners, kicking stones-

That slate the chalk in the back of my mind.

Where there lies the musk of a worn notebook,

Within the promised warmth of your overhang-

pressed clean like the veins of a leaf,

Stowed away among pages unwritten.

But like the charm of an old shell

that breathes in itself if you hold it close,

I often hide in that silence.

The silence of the known.

 

And all these stones that I have kicked,

quietly echo the Morse of blind chests

to sweat words unsaid, wolfing down my spine.

And all these stones that I have kicked,

quietly fall to place like the Braille of night

that danced in our faint lipped eclipse

To show the moon not only as a reflection

But our gift.

 

 

…when you hear a voice

amid the tangle of knitted walls,

Swim back through the shadow

within a shadow on black waters past.

Open that notebook.

You will find me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s