Shadow of the room, languid, surreal, moonless nights, drifted.
After midnight, no sign of recognition, moved through plangent lights,
ceremony of surprise, photographs in stopped time.
Behind my eyes, perfect stillness, lost in the mist of poetry, made a second
They say write poetry, I carry, in my grotesque melodrama, my luminous
sensitivity, the stored bitterness of my childhood, the beauty of indrawn
I forgive their transgressions against me, idly time passes, listening to the
wind, counting the clouds.
Flashback, trips of the 60s, another program of light, in the mist of another
place, another life, another program, another date.
Some journeys take years, go where you least expect to go, poetry.
* * * * *
Dennis Thomas is an Australian poet who resides in Canberra. His work has appeared in The Lost Words, and The South Townsville micro poetry journal. He is currently preparing his fourth collection.
His contributions to Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.