My truth is forged of words discarded,
words forgotten, left unguarded —
I find them in the empty ways,
gather them in dark bouquets,
mold them into grotesque forms,
scatter them on rising storms
to fall, forgotten, as the rain,
to be forgotten, as my pain.
The sleeping crowd takes up my song;
words the same, the notes seem wrong.
Who remembers which are right?
Who remembers past the night
what is lost amid these dreams?
One voice, seeking morning, screams,
Stop, thief! as the felon flees —
we handed him all the keys.
A silver emptiness of the moon
crosses clear blue vaults of noon,
as I count invisible stars.
Let them rise, Venus, Mars,
to reflect in evening’s pond,
form again this fragile bond
of real and mirror, of truth and lie,
discarded words, uncaring sky.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
This was first written, a few days ago, as a song lyric but I was unsatisfied with that and completely rewrote — doing a bit of that ‘kill your darlings’ thing in the process.