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Sean Fenech Poem
Withered fingers
Cannot play anymore;
I drown in nuanced shades of blue,
Not seeing, in my plight,
My strings, wound tight,
Suspending me
Like a puppet,
Tethered to life.
I in my tattered clothes,
Blue like sorrow,
Torn like the heart that hopes,
Unable to keep out the cold
Or cover the secrets I hold—
I am the man who mopes,
Holding my guitar close
As it whispers its chords
Whilst I, cross-legged, ponder
Life in rags and cardboards.
Back to the old routine:
Awash in blue,
This song’s for you:
Echoes of a gunshot;
The click of a trigger.
Copyright © Sean Fenech | Year Posted 2024
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Sean Fenech Poem
hanging
i am the piece that’s lost
caught in the little flanks
for the rooks and vultures
to devour
at this hour
where sunlight and twilight
do more than merely rhyme
hung by wire
i pass the time
soaking up sunfire
hanging
and i dangle
swaying to the winds that mangle
i
am
torn
and
tattered
won’t someone get me down from here?
splatter my brains
and scatter my remains?
(i’ve no need for myself)
save the dirges
for someone who gave a rat’s ass
about living
every day was my funeral
this is my finale
the end of me
Copyright © Sean Fenech | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Sean Fenech Poem
The learning curve is much too steep;
I’m stuck at the bottom
Staring at mountaintops,
Swept away by rivers,
Eroding with the skeletons
Whose bones faded so long ago;
Count me with the corpses—
I died before I lived
Kissed by the noose in the water
As I walked off the final step
And forgot how to float.
Bottomfeeder, nonsensebreeder,
The task was learning how to swim—
But the pieces were pushed too far
For me to breathe or do much else;
I merely drowned instead,
Hoping my grave would serve
As a memory—but
Even I forgot my own eulogy.
Copyright © Sean Fenech | Year Posted 2024
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