Wednesday, 9 September 2015
If sand could be swallowed
would that empty place within
find itself curving back into a solid
and home, that recedes in the light of day,
be finally re-found?
If the night, that hollow we step within
and try to hide all the damage
we have done, could be devoured and made
to turn again
into light would we feel the sun run
free in the tired rivers of our veins?
And if my hand could hold the right pen,
if the ink ran into all the proper places
and the lines between remained balanced and sober,
would I finally find all the images and sounds
might fall still
the way a leaf tumbles down to the floor
and creates a sea of silence for the many lives
of the creatures that burrow and scurry beneath
the ocean of tree?
Might I, finally finding my inside had been turned
Out and drowning then in the sight
of what should be hidden, be set free?