The Mourning

Sipping sugarless coffee
My foot tapping in time
With the dripping tap,
My mind wandering
Over the pleated triangles
Of medieval tapestry grass

Occasionally
I exhume you to
reanimate your silken flesh,
breathe the breath of stars
into your tin heart.
Forever twenty-one
but decayed
in the mausoleum-maze,
and polished granite tombs
where I contain your haunting.

Your presence like
a hump-back bow wave
imploding my resolve.

Patrik Gryst (nom de plume)

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