Hey, guess what? A new poem! Well, yes, the first draft happened in late 2o14, but I had forgotten all about it. I discovered it the other day when I looked over all the poems I had written in December. Surprised to find it, and to be honest, I had know idea that I had written it. It may need some more work, but it seems to work well enough . . . for now.
they’ve packed their bags the night before
as I slipped beneath an awkward dream
which I won’t remember when I wake.
might they not leave a note? No.
There’s nothing left but memories, clumps
of bewildered dust, a lonely cobweb in the corner.
Running down my bloated face blood flows
in gentle slivers, burning red;
my cheeks don’t seem to mind.
my view of that abandoned lot across the way
they’ve disappeared. What’s left to see?
The shadows drifting on the lawn won’t tell me.
Woodie o3-12-15
My Eyes
My eyes are leaving me without a word,
no remorse, no goodbye. they’ve packed their bags the night before
as I slipped beneath an awkward dream
which I won’t remember when I wake.
You’d think that after all these years
and all those tears we’ve shed, might they not leave a note? No.
There’s nothing left but memories, clumps
of bewildered dust, a lonely cobweb in the corner.
In the mirror, two black holes.
My eyes lived there once, they saw, they thrived. Running down my bloated face blood flows
in gentle slivers, burning red;
my cheeks don’t seem to mind.
And the moon, she’s dead. That line of trees
along Trout Avenue, the ones that blockedmy view of that abandoned lot across the way
they’ve disappeared. What’s left to see?
The shadows drifting on the lawn won’t tell me.
Woodie o3-12-15
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