A Fortnight Within… The Womb Of Your Leaving

There is no wheeling bat-flight
to eye-follow
around the bruised-purple hues
and dim burgundy light.
There’s a rejected pulse/heartbeat
drumming somewhere in the vague… distance
to accompany the mournful cello strings
))))shuddering((((
deep inside my cliff-leaping nerves.
A spider on hunger strike…
shadow-waiting something out of reach…
as the dull, throbbing Echo
sings mournful lullabies to itself…
and I dubiously half-wish
upon falling stars…
instantly kamikaze by my intrusive insistence.
If I were but a ‘Paper Man’
I would origami myself a different shape,
a more emotionally streamline construction…
and set sail from the ’10 Of Swords’ cave mouth,
to rover the lashing waves,
out into the storm-less skies
far upon the other side
of these desperate Unrequited Seas.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press); Poetry From The Nearest Barstool; and a split poetry book The Raven And The Vagabond Heart with Bethany W Pope. You can also read his poems and stories here! Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.