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Poem

Kisses from insolvent grave,
Stole the dying breath away
So dizzyingly fast,
It escaped as fleeting vapour;
The hackles bristled, raised,
Clouds of ink on sunny days,
As scratching quills engraved 
Upon white paper

Who among the sprawl could feel
If it was or wasn’t real,
The secret of the dream
Beyond the ruffle of the curtain?
Beggar soup and furtive fate 
And how long we wait and wait,
Until all that yet may be,
Remains uncertain.

Someone gasped but never said
If the halos ‘round the head
Needed either polishing 
Or a surreptitious breaking,
I don’t at length suppose 
That at the naming of the rose,
The parents knew the thorns
Would be the making.

And like canaries in a mine
We are running out of time,
So dizzyingly fast
We are encroached by our inactions;
All we were and were not told,
Fossilised by freezing cold,
And all that was or passes by
Were scant distractions.

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