Bereft- bile rising on a tide of crimson tears
Forget the humdrum faces of the faithful
Languish in the liminality of loss that lengthens the hours of every day since.
Bury your head. Bury your heart.
That which hath gone and cannot be gathered
For the past is passed, and whilst not to be forgotten cannot pulse again with life
Hooded, labelled, lost on the fringe
Of a world that ceased to care, no compassion.
© Alison Jean Hankinson
This isn’t my usual style and it is a poem for the man in the doorway many months ago, perhaps it is his back-story. It is for Napowrimo day 13.
This is for open link night with d’Verse.