Saturday 12 March 2011

Melvyn Browne

Havisham’s loss

Pitiful ugly witch with hatred of that loathed assassin of her heart
What course to take from life’s mistaken love to hide to run
Loves damage done to death these restless years
Talk till mind was dry; remember what was said, of nothing

No release as time cracked down, whilst flesh and bones reseed
Twisted thoughts not shared but for the mirror; which lies.
Stilted uncertain hand grasped tight, sticks polished handle.
Lent forward, back so bent nair straight again sat on withered hollowed chair

Fires sparking caught little of half closed eyes that weakened with the glow
Head moving to and fro. Old dress so loose on frame obtuse to change
Dusty strands, white so long, extinguished thoughts of golden tresses
No hope but end of ends itself, thence taken from, life’s lonely shelf

Melvyn  13th September 2010

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