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A Fortnight of Tears Wiped Away on the Sleeve of a Condemned Man |
in the ante room of
my dreams I can hear
the rustling of leaves
against the waning night
withered branches
moaning from the ache
of being thrashed about
by the unwelcome
winds of change in
the market value of
weddings and murders
committed in the name
of honor, the value of
a good slap to the head
to jar a memory loose from
its moorings to go floating
off into unexplored realms
of untethered ravings by
the learned men hung
by their wrists in their ivory
towers of learning for
learning’s sake, their cups
of Earl Grey, hot, leaning
over the precipice of an
open window overlooking
the afterthought of the newly
dead not yet tucked in in
among the roses reading
“Good Night Moon” to the
Mourners scattered amongst
The splintered trees of Calvary
Awaiting news as to the Carpenter
Being truly a man of his word
copyright 2019
Timothy Paul
Evans |
