The Blue Chisel
Way north of the mind is where you'll find them.
A million shards of memories
trapped deep inside the blue ice
of a terminal disease called time.
Grab your flaccid chisel, old boy.
Try and rescue them if you must.
Release their lonely orphan cries.
Bore deep into their blue misty eyes...
Until hope turns to pyrite dust.
Bore in deep.
Maybe taste a speck of sea salt-memory.
What was her name?
The one who made you crave her everything.
The one who could knead a jester from a king.
From a quarter century ago...
with half a dozen other ghosts.
She arrives, cascading down
the icy rut of winter's blush.
Where you have no chance
to ever make her cut.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
