Christopher Withers Poems

balding trees echo with
the memory of recent rain,
their quiet voice mourns their loss
with twisted black hands
...

individuality, seemingly unique
yet, built upon the same mechanics,
built upon the same brain structure,
in each and everyone of us.
...

grass scent fills my mind
weaves visions and associations:
summers past
fathers hand
...

on occasion - as a child,
eternity would visit me.

at night:
...

intentions,
they sometimes get the better of me,
such that
my automatic, lie-down attitude, sees.
...

the sun, in harsh stroke,
cuts a sharp line,
breaking the dawn leached wall.
your hand, caught in this sudden brilliance
...

carried, on morning hue, i find
an almost timeless clarity,
so, as i sit here by myself
looking out (but, in truth, looking in) ,
...

in futile play, surrounding walls
blink and crawl with darkening day,
relentless waves bruise the light:
it's single source of debarment.
...

the darkness presses on my eyes,
a kaleidoscope of sparks, and clouds,
and half eventful reveries,
twisted by my fevered mind
...

in death, the fear is absolved,
in life, the fear is rash and bold,
avoidance of our darkest night,
removes not the fear, from our sight.
...