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Claire ww5 December 2012

I touched all your stones but
the bright one, still red one

I reach for your silence, grasping
each nothing and rippling pause

I keep you, not captive, far from
charade and serene masquerade

I define desolation, imaginary
lines in the absence of tears

I will not cry or shout loud
though your whisper still lingers

I, troubadour, must trust to my
words, though they fail, each day
still acute to the stillness of loss

 

All poems and other texts on this site are the copyright of Richard Edward Hugh Castellan 2009