In the beginning
Bitter air pushing against laboured lungs
Forcing themselves apart
Against the grain
Mist; rising to meet its ally in the sky
Of silver-gray basket weaves
Tying knots in our minds eyes.
Mist; rolling off rolling out
Squeezed between layers of mud, memories, hopes
©Cath Piltz 2017
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What strange sorrow should befall this fine morning,
As an imploded star’s deepest blackness should seek to draw out
all of life’s joy from me?
And what sealed box that no key would unlock
Should steal my heart
that forever yearning could never touch
nor hope to possess?
Her eyes her eyes her eyes.
The vase leans into the veneer bench top
Cracks split apart to its glass heart;
Lost on the
The sandstone tiles and timber boards,
Thick tears pool together
with the odd few
tracing around the roses and chrysanthemums