Silver legends
drip down walls,
memories,
once pristine,
dissolve into ash white air.
Everyday shatters
the instant it finishes.
We cannot revive the
heart of a passing day,
or resurrect...
what was once living.
Whilst we bleed our lives away,
time moves on.
Our fingertips trail across paper
trying to raise carbon black silhouettes.
In the end,
one question remains;
are we shadows
or are we the figures
casting them?
Our souls tight-rope across spikes
running down our brains
like the devil's foot-prints.
Comments
Highhat | March 12, 2011 - 23:43
Great "are we shadows or are we the figures casting them" brilliant Beeme- thanks for a good read
:)Pia
Beeme | March 13, 2011 - 10:30
Thanks very much Pia, really happy you enjoyed :) I wasn't sure about this one...
Beeme xx
MistakenMagic | March 13, 2011 - 17:05
Very chilling poem, Beeme - quite reminiscent of the playwright Samuel Beckett. Just one typo - 'Devils' should be 'Devil's' ;)
Magic xxx
Beeme | March 13, 2011 - 19:57
Thanks very much Magic, really glad you enjoyed :) Changed the typo :) xxx