Untitled 19th March 2015

Life’s threads

Spin between her fingers,

The black robed incarnation

Of euphemistically balanced existence.

She walked the lines,

The morning dew of incomplete resolution,

Convulsing the fevers of disingenuous ambitions,

Walking between tryst and falseprophets.

Her words were wind,

Caressing lovers to distance shores

Where anticipation longed for more

Than ephialtes and by-gone streams.

Antediluvian reminiscence

Becomes the drowning superstition

Of fates that barely cross,

Nothing lasts forever.

Her idioms taste of purgatory,

The place she calls to for her soul,

Where phantasms and pretence take hold

Of each bête noire.

Anathema of distrust,

Offering nothing, but inconsistent execrate

And words that mean less

Than the darkness she professes in heart.

Each counterfeit emotion

Lost in feigned engagements

And broken meetings,

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away.*


* Emily Dickinson – I heard a Fly buzz – when I died

Poem © Phen Weston 2015


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