Mere fingertips
Upon the edge of time
That judged a man
But not his rhyme
Strings on bows
To arrowhead
Searched his cupboards
As he lay dead.
Built a fire
In the hearth
Of a cold metal grate
At days start
While on a wooden bed
Comfort free
Lost to Heaven
Finally free.
Genius lay
In mortal flesh
Bone and sinew
Now at rest
Eyes that stared
To ceiling stained
A garret coffin
Words now framed.
-
Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: September 29th, 2026 02:28
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 32
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments4
Good write N. We're holding on to hope with our fingertips, that a bus may come along. lol.
yes the enigma called the no 7 lol
Norman this one grabbed me it combines vivid real images with symbolism to create a poetic enigma and painting of a surreal scene. Modernistic it uses classical images. Well done a fave my friend
most kind, thanking you and much appreciated
Most welcome Norman
Fantastic work.
most kind, thanks and appreciation
Norman, that “garret coffin” image stopped me cold. Bleak as hell, and I could see the whole room. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
thank you my friend, it would seem mission accomplished in this poem, much appreciated
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.