Hours wake and the dead don’t talk,
empty stakes in their wayward fault.
Some days, beyond the post-mortem stray,
where storms chase dragons and old crones decay,
I search the world for more than you,
but each new location only drew
you nearer to those haunted hours,
our littered dreams and those terminal flowers
we picked in time with broken stem,
and hoped to rest, timeless, beneath them.
And all your quotes lead back to nothing,
each line steals rhyme, and I decline
to climb for false silver linings to play the mime
of emotions locked in shallow graves,
but was it grave to dream of wanting rolling waves?
The lapping shore and one hundred days of more
than all the traces you gave through sleeping chaos?
Where all roads lead to regurgitated Pathos,
soon, each fray reaches our terminal crossway,
delinquent Mondays in forewarned portraits
Poem © Phen Weston 2015