EARTHBORNE ONLINE POETRY MAGAZINE

SMALL WORDS

 

January. Between midnights.

Lamplight building a temple to darkness.

The dark tearing its veils. I’m lying here.

 

Writing night a letter.

I’m warming the stones in sleep’s bed.

Dismantling wonder’s scriptures.

 

Addressing dreamlike absolutes.

My words are small but centuries long.

Each story is a bedtime story.

 

Every sentence is a walk down to the sea.

I think of a rockbeing constantly thrown at the wind.

Or I think of nothing.

Of time’s snowmen.

Of life’s songs.

 

I’m in an ice-house,

hours passing at an incredible distance.

The moments parting.

I’m in a dream-house,

alive to the possibilities.

At the epicentre of this raisin-world,

stringing popcorn-words together.

Making a breath chain.

 

Then nothing happens.

I am that cracked god,

all my creations beneath me.

The room is a boatslipped from its dim moorings.

 

I’m past the lighthouse now.

 

I am beyond salvation.