Steerage through Lethe

this dead November sun too pale to light candles
too cold to re-animate summer photographs
too fragile to secure that warmth in my heart

the clock’s cross hands lose time
each moment tilting on the tide between darkness and light
season-locked in the penumbra

my consciousness drifts, a rudderless galleon
ploughing eons of dark, waveless sea
sometimes in the coils of solitude

golden lights pinch the void
words break the lifeless waters of Lethe
steerage through the perilous rocks

Patrik Gryst


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