Peter Cawford

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Best Poem of Peter Cawford

Skin Degradation

Grain prints its touch as terror climbs my mind, grasping for my eyes. There is no horizon here.

Deafened by nature. Crafted in oak, a gallows scaled in iron. Thrust apon me numerals of end, six nine and thirteen a long held tradition. Tried true in all colors and creed.

Is this fear a faithless shadow, that now weighs me down? How does one not see an accent?

Limbs are heavy and sodden a Plato gives no relief to my limbs. Each movement is stifled governed by hesitance, tearing at the peace once thrived and revered. Ψ

September 03,2008

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