|
by Fabrice Poussin The bow, blue, has gathered the flakes of ages; Restless below a birth anxious to be, shivers, abandoned behind the old encyclopedia. The recipient invited to the celebration absent, the gift remains uncovered, secret, weakening; The doors to the fortress have been welded shut. A babe almost a carrion begins to decompose; In a solitude unplanned at the bottom of the box; Walls close in on the wishes of an existence forlorn. As if with eyes, heart, soul, vaguely shaped seem to look up; wondering what tears could be, pleading, hoping to discover the power of sounds and words. Yet the only sense is that of mold in a damp room; No bones to ache, no skin to crack, just a soul confused, vaporous, electrified, shocked with the pain of abandonment. So many faces of the sun have gone by, and as many moons; Silence remains, it is icy cold in the house of loneliness; For now, she has not yet come for her gift. Copyright 2017. All rights reserved.
|