UN-FELT
Murk of longing, sabre’s thrust,
carves its meaning where chords must,
as drops of red,
not first it bled,
let pain seep through my visions’ weaving,
for but a breath—then softly leaving.
The lure of shadows’ slow disguise
pricks with anacrusis’ cries;
those hours of dreaming,
un-felt gleaming,
and sudden being freed from weight
are shapeless—near and far in state.
The step of breath in in-between
ticks with the pulse where none has been;
all hollow feelings,
un-lived dealings,
and furtive constant, false endeavour,
may change itself to truth—if ever.
The cry of mute, blunt-edged decrees
through time grows sharp as jagged pleas;
and maybe endless,
un-finite, friendless,
my heart will echo wholly voiceless
the shade of tears—soul’s muted noiseless.
Author: Veron
