A Winter’s Bed.
The window may be round.
It may be square.
It could be arched and carved in stone,
The view remains the same.
The clanging smog hangs low.
Beyond the sharp glass window pane,
Old moon…my eyes are wandering.
A fever in my brain.
I’m seeing everything…
The walls are closing in,
I feel constrained….only
my eyes are travelling.
Disintegrating landscape.
My heart has made a dunce of me.
My core is sorrowing…
It seems I cannot help this sobbing earth
or save the choking seven seas.
Old moons and stars and universe.
Your dusty lifeless plains
are clearly warning me.
Kristine Byrne May 2019