poetry

Still

Still to arrive

still to live and

cry – and crawl into

a world that fingers

it’s brain

Β 

It’s still trapped in a

globular canvas of

skin, soft as a painting

that draws in empty

corners – scented

sounds swim over her navel

Β 

Still to listen to

the nighttime echoes,

the chill and rhythm

of subtle moans. Her

eyes hover – the walls

speak to me once the

silence shifts

Β 

Still I sleep in the

grave of my bed.

I live with saturated

stories, hours that ask

to be fed. I sweep up the frayed

songs lying here – the room collects

its temper, aching with frailty.

Β 

Β 

Β 

PhilosopherPoet

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