February 11, 2025Poem
Asleep at the back
lossgriefcitypoliticstimemortality
Asleep at the back
Breaking chains
The rust of bones
Bent in toil
The scourge of weariness
Creeping over
The darkling edge
Never too settled
The fear of reprisal
A death hand
Looming.
Prisoners all
Trapped in circumstance
Broken by degree
Systems of bartering
Harboured in grief
Held in proximity
To freedom
Spied through the cracks
In belief
As old stories
Wear paper thin.
There is nothing
To see
But the space between
What is there
The fullness of glare
And what lies
Below the fault line
Stir it up
Turn the tide
Lift the dust
It is salted in faerie
We have lain too long
Change position
To conquer the tide
It will turn
In good time
For supper.