And Yet Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Driven by the broken toll
bellowing chimney sweeps allow
I forge insanity into the one sword
cold nights insist upon.

Unpromised by tomorrow
ragged scarecrows beckons,
seven mortally wounded winds
fall short again at midnight.

Where once milky skin
embraced all bare dreams and more
a scarred breath flows anxiously
like a fleeing gull to the sea.

I have but bruised remains
and eyes that see the turning of leaves
into earth’s black and withered bowl
with a tender longing to fall.

So sleep all dreams
that no longer haunt my covert days
sleep and let there be no more hope
beyond the sullen earth.