In a passion
that could cook skin,
Like knuckle-eyed
Death at the door,
The wild wind whipped
Round the blind corner.
I heard the footfall,
A stranger in pursuit.
I looked back and saw
A well-lit mirror,
An open-window-stare.
Heard some phone
Call in the night.
A cry, a moan
Like river-bed stone
Swallowed by
Blue river veins.
It was not tomorrow,
Or how yesterday
Hurls itself
At the junction
Of my dreams
And waking hours.
It was an echo.
My empty voice returned
As strange to my ears
As to the mouth who
Let the utterance fly
To remind me I have
Not forgotten the ghost
That still rattles my bones.
(Read Marks Blog at http://www.markgoodson.com/
4 Comments
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love that Mark! Well done sir!
Very Nice! Worth multiple readings and reflections.