deepundergroundpoetry.com
Deathmarch of Days
As a child
the touch was so light
It almost felt
I could brush it aside
There was surely time
to live forever
before the hand on my shoulder
grew heavier
and my heart knew
the ardour of its press
The weight of each day
added dutifully to the next
My poison of sunsets
fed drop by drop
until every new moon
cried blood
and the scorn
of wheeling birds
grew harsher
as each dawn broke
Only the hand knows
how many more blue skies
before the soul is scattered
and seconds cease their fuss
until life
becomes a memory
sharing its page with dust
Published 10th Jan 2017
| Edited 9th Nov 2021
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10th Jan 2017 6:34pm
What an soulful pen from the heart, Abra. This captures the journey through life between youth and old-age perfectly when you seem to living day by day. I loved the depth of emotion it evoked, albeit deeply melancholy. I contemplate my own hands and shoulders and how so flippantly I seemed to brush things away until another moment in time - now somewhat quasi regrets, yet realizations too, that all were a part of necessary decisions for growth. As were yours.
The personification of the hand as having a conscious knowing as to the length of days was extremely attention getting and unique. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece. Though I feel a bit sadder for having read it.
The personification of the hand as having a conscious knowing as to the length of days was extremely attention getting and unique. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece. Though I feel a bit sadder for having read it.
10th Jan 2017 8:53pm
