at the end
to speak our names
to the indifferent wind
as the sun glows ever redder
and the oceans mist and boil away?
Who will be there
at the end
to speak our lists of
omissions and commissions
to an uncaring black sky
streaked with violent aurorae?
Who will be there
to carve the words
into wood or stone
telling our tale
though none will ever pass by
to read it?
Who will be there
to hold my hand
to lay down next to me
to wait with me
until the wolf rises up
and eats the sun?
Julie Knispel
28 October 2015
No comments:
Post a Comment