Times Grip
Trapped inside a nightmare,
dying inch by inch
Slave inside a rusted heart,
feelings chained then lynched
Later now than yesterday,
earlier than goodbye
Spooled like thread that can’t be sewn,
the needle asking why
But time contorts, reversing,
trumpets call you home
Eyes unspoken, voice untouched,
senses all dethroned
Words on fire with freedom stirred,
their meaning scorched and bare
A silence brewing louder,
new light burns through the air
Eleven Angels fly as one,
and twelfth, you join their throng
With wings now soaring inward,
—time’s grip left dead and gone
(Airplane To Seattle: March 8, 2017)
Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | 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. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment