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 widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.