A Hollow Wake: - Poem by MARINA GIPPS
An aftermath of sorts
when nothing more can be said.
I’m a disembodied lyricist with stale cigarettes.
I cry at my own readings.
Signs signs everywhere there are signs,
says the marshmallow roasting connoisseur,
brandishing the fire with his long stick,
Remembering this melancholy of a place
that made me mutilate myself, always leading to
a move anywhere…away from this soil
better dose of guilt than the good book.
And why do they call it the good book
when so many people swear over it?
I only read half way.
Sullenly disjointed with my brain to pen.
I closed my eyes for a long time
as lashes no longer row back tears.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye