adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Starve, a poem


Death is at your shoulder.
He would take you, whisper you
away in a cold
exhalation. He would

take you on my watch,
starve your days
like the blank-eyed beggars
that reach toward me.

I place coins
in their hands but they
will not be fed.
Death is at your shoulder,

holding the prayers of memory.
Spread singing on the table,
you did not eat.
They only grow cold.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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