Weary eyes
Lifted gently
To face a day
The hours sentry
Its centre point
Left in dream
Lifes twisting turns
Hides fears unseen.
As angels passed
Within that sleep
Silent oaths
To promise keep
And now the fate
Of this new day
Astride the moments
Footsteps to stray.
We bury our dead
Or burn the flesh
The soul lives on
Or so its said
Dreading still
That he may weep
The cortege
Upon the street.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: August 18th, 2026 02:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 30
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, RSM0812
Offline)
Comments4
This poem carries a somber note as if in a minor key. It feels as if it were a dirge and Mozart's Lacrimosa were playing. Nicely done my friend.
thanking you, much appreciated
You are most welcome Norman
Good write N.
So it's come to this now - no buses in our earthly lives. lol.
such a shame lol
Fantastic work.
Most kind, thanks and appreciation
Norman, this moves beautifully across the threshold between sleep and waking, protection and uncertainty, death and the hope of continuance. The final procession leaves the whole piece wrapped in solemn mystery...powerful work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
most kind comments, thanking you my friend much appreciated
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