Jul. 29, 2017


Your dead image
sits inside me
pale face
long washed hennaed hair
long eyelashes closed
traces of cold sore
on your ice frozen lips

I ache inside
my head for you
to wake, to breathe
you lie there
I walk slowly
round you
scavenging for life

screams and howls
of despair and loss
bounce round the room
I know afterwards
they are mine
my love my hope
my soulmate gone

three islands
wake you
behind glass doors
each with their own
death of you
green curtains
end a part of life.

Latest comments

25.11 | 22:15

Grief is experience through the mundane. Simple but powerful. The accompanying image really compliments the poem.

07.11 | 11:14

Hi Peter,

A great observation! Social media can be a scary place... I also need to reduce my time there



06.11 | 16:24

A great one, Peter, in the context you describe. I don't read social media myself, I doubt my equilibrium could stand it. 'The balance of his mind disturbed' yes, I think it would be.

06.11 | 15:59

Yes, gossip is a weapon of mass destruction.

In my business as well as personal life I have zero tolerance.

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