Catherine Heath
May 2015
Come down off the clouds,
Proud angels say:
This life is not today.
Take a cold, hard look
At the book you’re holding––
Turn the page;
In our old age, we find
The book we read
Was not our own.
The words he said
We’ve now outgrown.
The mould-covered grammar
Stammers along to tunes
Artfully composed
Without you.
Ethereal smoke
Built into imagination.
Shadows of people
Ingrained in memory.
Insubstantial touching,
Reaching up to heights
Of ecstasy.
Pretensions of love;
Extensions from above,
Before sick dawning horror
Precludes redemption.
Hanging bows from
Hanging dolls––
Execution toys
Are worse than boys.
Credit: Photo by Aldebaran S on Unsplash
