adventures in dysthymia

Monday, July 01, 2013

Flow, a poem


The slowly flowing ichor of these hours
fills me, chokes my veins, and all ambition
sleeps, lulled by subdued and subtle rhythms
of heat, insistent wordless songs of night.

Rain whispers at the glass, reminding me
of each promise life once made. Tomorrow,
they may lie forgotten, to be tripped
upon and cursed, debris of some time past,

and day will slowly flow from the horizon.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

Maybe early draft, maybe finished --- I'll know eventually but it needs to sit and age a bit.

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