You’ve been practising fortune telling,
I can see it when you peer
Into the dark glass of the mirror
You’re remembering your great skill for augury.
Each morning you go out to observe the sky
Looking for circling crows.
Each night you watch the dead space above the bed,
Conjuring blackness into form.
Awaiting a voice that won’t come,
Teasing each hush into a whisper,
Searching for the slightest sign that will deliver death of it’s finality
And exorcise it’s bad math.
How neatly it played you,
Snapped your reason
Left you whirring to it’s irreconcilable logic.
Like a thunderstorm in the early evening
It left you reaching for candles,
Conjuring shadows on a living room wall,
Communicating with ghosts of your own creation,
That for all you eagerness
Still won’t say what you need them to.
No comments:
Post a Comment