Softly falling somber sounds,
limber words that run aground
in rings of grey and transparent swirls
from the depths of consciousness.
Faulty voices stumbling off,
as the poet in sneakers is creeping soft
on tender wounds,
like patches on a satin dress.
Words emerge with crumbling breath,
called from the depths of secret holes,
teetering on the edges of somber sounds
as the poet’s heart emerges.
He could not die when trees were green, for he loved the time too well – John Clare