Seven Octobers drift like leaves away,
Each one a whisper fading in the cold.
The truth I carry grows heavier each day,
Yet still I wait, though waiting makes me old.
I dream his footsteps cross the miles of night,
Past voices cruel that guard him from my name.
Through rain and train and wind’s relentless bite,
He’d find this northern room and end the blame.
My window frames the ghost of what could be,
A flicker where my hope still burns despite
The frost of lies that grows around the tree
Of all we were, still rooted out of sight.
And if he wakes, if love can still surprise,
October will be spring before my eyes.
..............
Poet's note:
This poem is in response to this challenge:
About the Creator
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart2 days ago in Fiction
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