Graveyards
The stagger of night, twilight stalks all lands,
draws close the grief of dulling coal;
when adult blood will stain my hands
what guilt will stain my soul?
The pluck of childhood dying, a throttled harp,
duet concord of a runaway train;
when looks might kill, honed razor sharp,
what murder kills my brain?
Some distant border, where the horsemen ride,
in fractions have me going south;
when wishes curl and die inside,
what words die in my mouth?
The afflict haul of moving on, of ever fraying ties,
leaves the light dying far behind;
when sport and death may fill my eyes,
what graveyards fill my mind?
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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