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Just me.

Just me.

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

About Being Afraid


In this poem,
the air is pure,
so I can easily notice
these powerful jaws of fear
ravenously devouring 
the soft music 
of your untainted soul
and
the astonishing light 
of your gentle being

Where is the voice 
that should speak up?
Where is the saddened joy 
that wants to be expressed?

The coded dignity of your trembling hands
cruelly drowns your silence out
The quirky grace of your moist eyes
is callously loud and clear,
but here this poem ends




Penarth (taken yesterday, click on the image to enlarge it)


Listen to this.