Hammock of Dust
It is the eighth hour of fog,
yet she still paces around the churchyard
without a hat on her blown tresses;
an autumn cloak rustling beneath a gray cloudscape
that somehow, her eyes wander on,
not because she relishes the flick
of icy leaves...not because silk orchids lay
on a marbled cross: rather,
her thoughts gather among dry thistles to wail
upon a crypt nestled by life’s hammock of dust.
The lull from breezes affirm such quietude
of her beloved now resting on potter’s field,
sealed by the finality of death : this instant crash
through night's byway pinning him down down the abyss...
And the mist spills into another hour
unrelenting in bowed silence,
as if he loved her essence more in ghastly ruins.
Broken Wing's Could You, Please Contest
Submitted 10/20/2017
Originally Written 10/17/2017
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2017
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment