A muslin veil
of twilight gathers
beyond this arc
of yellow light
and the door
creaks a question
into the night rain.
As I look for an angel
waiting to make
a belated annunciation,
the gas fire
breathes a welcome
and a disembodied voice
screams “You`re a bastard
and I hate you”.
Is time or love
ever wasted?
And will we always
be pilgrims to this moment?
As darkness grows
at the window,
only my self is reflected
as the unwinking street lights
examine what I have become.
Comments
lenchenelf | March 13, 2009 - 16:47
It is a pleasure to read your thoughtful work. atb L
Gilbert | March 14, 2009 - 10:24
Thanks for your kind comment.
G.
Amna | April 2, 2009 - 19:59
'A muslin veil
of twilight gathers
beyond this arc
of yellow light
and the door
creaks a question
into the night rain.' => I love this extract, it's what synaesthesia must be like.
'Is time or love
ever wasted?
And will we always
be pilgrims to this moment?' => Beautiful. Thank you for this poem.
Gilbert | April 5, 2009 - 06:33
Thanks for your very kind comment.
Glad you liked it.
G.