Silence descends
like black lace
over a face in mourning.
We cheat and scramble
to avoid mortality
throw dice against prevailing winds
defy all storm warnings
stand out in the gale
stubborn as a shore to sea
that digs and bitches
with the salt of demand -
all that has been cast up
must be returned.
1 comment:
You reminded me of a poem by my second favourite Canadian poet Margaret Atwood called Cell.
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