deepundergroundpoetry.com
I Swear
The morning after the dark will be littered with ghosts,
It will smell of death and life and frosty windows.
I will rise with them.
This morning will end,
It will taste of car exhaust and mold and fog.
I will end with it.
Before and before and the before until,
After,
I promise,
Soon.
Soon the time will come when the hands begin to turn back,
I promise my mushy bones respite from the push and pull of the waves.
They creak and groan as my veins crackle,
I promise the morning will end.
‘How much longer’ is a worry that ends all worries,
Soon is a pseudonym for the animal instinct to survive.
The predictability of the ending of the story scribed into the flesh on my left arm;
This morning will end,
I will end with it.
The harmonies of grief are quiet in the room with white walls,
They are covered in layers of thin watery white paint.
I call for an encore with a wave of my white hand,
The moment lasts just one more second.
Soon.
The beat of a heart rocks the room,
It mimics the swaying motion of the bloodless.
The endless white noise of a world outside where I am now,
The one that tastes like car exhaust and mold and fog.
Characterized by the harmonies of grief uncovered,
The creaking will stop.
Just a bit longer before the after is until and now,
When the pressure on these joints becomes pressure on another's shoulder.
Forgive the second hand smoke,
My car broke down on the roads covered in snow.
The promise of soon expired years ago,
A worry to start all over again.
The question of how was answered in a dream made in a conscious mind,
Unable to recall,
Time of death.
Upon arrival the choirs will sing to a locked golden chain link fence,
The doves snag themselves on barbed wire.
The wracking sobs leave a line across my neck,
My pulse escapes into the crowd of white coated strangers.
The sun is high in the sky as 1 becomes 2,
The streets will be empty and the people will look to the ground.
The ghosts will look back,
The morning will crawl into dirt.
I will chase after it,
Under it.
This morning will end,
It will taste of car exhaust and mold and fog.
I will end with it.
It will smell of death and life and frosty windows.
I will rise with them.
This morning will end,
It will taste of car exhaust and mold and fog.
I will end with it.
Before and before and the before until,
After,
I promise,
Soon.
Soon the time will come when the hands begin to turn back,
I promise my mushy bones respite from the push and pull of the waves.
They creak and groan as my veins crackle,
I promise the morning will end.
‘How much longer’ is a worry that ends all worries,
Soon is a pseudonym for the animal instinct to survive.
The predictability of the ending of the story scribed into the flesh on my left arm;
This morning will end,
I will end with it.
The harmonies of grief are quiet in the room with white walls,
They are covered in layers of thin watery white paint.
I call for an encore with a wave of my white hand,
The moment lasts just one more second.
Soon.
The beat of a heart rocks the room,
It mimics the swaying motion of the bloodless.
The endless white noise of a world outside where I am now,
The one that tastes like car exhaust and mold and fog.
Characterized by the harmonies of grief uncovered,
The creaking will stop.
Just a bit longer before the after is until and now,
When the pressure on these joints becomes pressure on another's shoulder.
Forgive the second hand smoke,
My car broke down on the roads covered in snow.
The promise of soon expired years ago,
A worry to start all over again.
The question of how was answered in a dream made in a conscious mind,
Unable to recall,
Time of death.
Upon arrival the choirs will sing to a locked golden chain link fence,
The doves snag themselves on barbed wire.
The wracking sobs leave a line across my neck,
My pulse escapes into the crowd of white coated strangers.
The sun is high in the sky as 1 becomes 2,
The streets will be empty and the people will look to the ground.
The ghosts will look back,
The morning will crawl into dirt.
I will chase after it,
Under it.
This morning will end,
It will taste of car exhaust and mold and fog.
I will end with it.
Published 17th Sep 2024
Author's Note
I swear this morning will end.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2
reading list entries 0
comments 1
reads 189
Commenting Preference:
The author is looking for friendly feedback.
17th Sep 2024 9:11pm
The thoughts that ramble about during these moments seem to last a lifetime though they are usually only a few minutes (sometimes happening over and over and over). I’ve had plenty of times like this over the years. You express them well. I hope it’s helping.
Holding you in thought, as always.
Holding you in thought, as always.
