John Snowdon

The Over

 

This quite course has led astray

Like the blanket remains where once we’d lay

Or some bastard reminder of we all cared

Like the common language we no longer share

Which has brought us to this foreign land

Where the lost are found among the damned.

 

There’s an ancient foe in the bed we made

Who stains our sheets in disarray,

Leaving peppered traces of you everywhere;

You’re footsteps still linger on the stairs

The disconnection point of the dust trail’s start

For love is not for the faint of heart.

 

Now curse that cross on our bedroom wall

Splintered half crooked from your nightly call

That finds me daily in departed prayer

On patch work knees now worn from wear

To blind my eyes in eternal rest

Or ease this pulse from within my chest.

 

The over is as the over does,

All ends must stem from ‘once there was.’

As parts of some shall piece the whole,

The constant companion of the wayward soul.

That transitions phases beyond light and dark,

For love is not for the faint of heart,

No love is not for the faint of heart.