The Shearing

[dyne7]

The Shearing

Suddenly, we are alone
in a bruised field
where the wings of
swarming locusts
beat us senseless,
and with our skin crumpling
like paper, magenta and darkening—
our eyes close.

That’s what I thought of
when I spoke to the florist
today, old hands shearing roses,
her eyes the hue of
dirty light.

I bet they were like mica once,
long before the blood became
corrupted, chest hissing sift sift sift
her life far removed, and cold.

Our eyes are not ours, they are given,
and they close when something
terrible must be done.
Like us, the eyes come back like water,

and the body, like us, will be gone.

[Delta40]

what a dark poem and the first stanza particularly was compelling. Although the message isn't clear to me, I always enjoy a poem that incites some kind of emotion and this one did. Well done Dyne

[Jack of Hearts]

It's a meditation on mortality. There's that haunting voice, dyne7, that several letters ago whispered through here but burnt a mark and left smoke for a ghost.








J