Drinking Under the Moon

"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh


I wander through this cold shell that used to be a box of memories.

Now only a space, full of the mist of past things.

The rooms seem to dribble shadow, as if in mourning,

a veil of loss as the building exhales in its emptiness.


A flimsy layer of dust begins to ooze through the liminal expanse.

This place between things. Not outside, but no longer an inside.

A home now in a twilight as its beating heart has left.

A skeleton of something that was.




Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s


This entry was posted on June 8, 2014 by in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , .
%d bloggers like this: