Moth Harris Poems
#100 - Faction
It's the ghost in the mirror, the shadow in the corner of the room.
The cascading thoughts that drift through my mind so steadily.
It breaks and scrapes, takes away, again, again, another day.
It's where you are, what you've become, darkness.
It's a memory that rests in me, the forgotten, the fools.
Old weapons, just tools. A broken butter knife, made of plastic.
The sense of things that do not condence,
A mirror with no reflection, the blindness of night.
Light or dark has no preception of wrong or right.
This Poem Is Mine
There's a thin line to define
A sign so intwined by vines
All kinds and at different times
You may find in your mind
they bind and confine
What is signed to this sign
A rhyme hidden by symbolic vines
It's all kept inside...