Saturday, August 13, 2005


All of yesterday’s
unfulfilled prophecies
turned up at my door.

Let them knock. Let them ring.

I’m not opening up.
Tomorrow’s news has gone to bed
And I must do the same.

Let them cry, remember me?

Memory is such
a fragile box. It cracks, it leaks
its dark pools of denial.

Let them flow away, fading

into imagination’s
desert lands. There they shall
become the drink of prophets.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

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