Till human voices wake us, and we drown. - T. S. Eliot - BURIED IN THE BLOOD OF MOONS NOT RISEN I am granted one day in seven, maybe two Before dark slough once again descends And I am lowered into oblivion Relieved of necessity to be other than black Pitch, as coats the bowels of ships, or makes of lost Roaming nights, sightless ghosts, invisible. Grateful should I still be able to fathom Light of tunnels end ahead of me Green and lush around its opening As if to beckon sun into eyes Fringes that tantalize and mock My numbness of despond. Easier, retreat into depths Where water drips endless rhythm Bats hang mute daily, to match my mood Eyes glowing watch beneath stretched leather Wings unwrap their wanderings, to hunt at twilight Leave me to starvation of spirit, slow descent into eclipse. I light faint fires from debris, chant out deep hours Seated on floors where creatures crawl Raw senses exposed to walls Inscribed with runes I do not remember recording Or some other wanderer of tombs has left as guide Further into Underworld. COPYRIGHT ANNA HUSAIN April 14, 2014
Posted on: Mon, 14 Apr 2014 23:19:57 +0000
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