by Andy S Barritt
Beneath the cloud palaces of August
my flame burns smokeless:
an air sign rising in a river of glass.
Watching the black curl of history
I’m terrified that this magic
will take more than I wish to give.
Diaries, letters, photographs of you:
bright fingers wear your faces
as tarnished rings loosening to ash.
Andy S Barritt is an East Midlands-based poet and writer who is interested in describing brief instants just slightly widdershins of the everyday: bright fragments born from chance fluctuations in the flow of experience.
#1 by aderynbanon on April 3, 2013 - 10:04 am
intriguing poem, succeeded in reflecting the bright fragment
#2 by Pearson on April 7, 2013 - 4:49 pm
really love this. great work
#3 by beste kredittkort on December 20, 2013 - 2:07 pm
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