Christopher Withers Poems
vision stunted by past deeds
leading to my current place,
childhood face: disconnected,
now adrift on stagnant lake.
cynicism scrawls the map
leading to my resting place,
a symptom of a drying mind,
what once was fluid, now is blind.
each denial of childhood dream
fractures now my world it seems.
mothers tears dried in her grave,
childhood view: never saved.
needing the bathroom late at night, silently,
i feel my way through the darkness,
slowly across the bedroom floor.
being careful not to trip or bang, i’m
suddenly reminded of a childhood game, one
in which i’d attempt to silently descend
what were surely the creakiest stairs in the world
(in my childhood memory at least)
without my parents waking