his middle eye is focused
on something still to come
his other one is watching
us
with one ear he’s listening
the other is not here
his lips are murmuring whispers
of what will be
what will be
of what has been
a gesture
an incantation
tics and twitches
and shouts and screams
birthing rites have ever been sung
this way
when the sun has passed it’s height
his trembling fades
a slump into the corner speaks eloquently
and the day he made has died
beneath the creeping shade
evening steals colour
away from the light
but he is not dead
no it’s only the passing of a time
and he will rise again
unfix his eyes and let the palsy dance
resume his arms and legs
to wake up the morning
again
© Frank Prem, 2010
This is outstanding.
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Thank you so much, Phillip, and Welcome.
Delighted you enjoyed the piece.
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Great.
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