Sunday, May 9, 2010

(Cod) ~ S J Fowler

the child cries
who will fill it’s mouth with earth?
I - a year out
I who listens neither too keen or distant
I, as required
and lo!
it is though she is dead already
fate inhales your departure
how fortunate we were to have had the news
it was as though the kid were never born
the pocketsbooks have burned
nothing of her but ribbons
and a scorched silhouette
lined in clay mud, and lye
pay this shadow mind
it’ll rain soon

1 comment:

irishpoetry said...

Was browsing the net and stumbled upon your site. Old post, yet ever fresh powerful thought-provoking poem. I love it.