The Years

A poem for 2019

Peace Poet Antony Owen

bird s eye view photography of road in the middle of desert Photo by The Lazy Artist Gallery on Pexels.com

Last New Year’s Eve we made the coldest fire,

lit a fire from our bones and collapsed into undealt things

they call them dreams in the real world but we exist in the realm.

On the last day of twenty seventeen I stared deep into space and me,

I can tell you how whole new worlds burst out like bluebells in black soil

I can tell you how scars of a log hiss out from the hearth like Hiroshima bones.

All of us exist in the realm with the crow fingered sky broken by its touch,

we exist in the climbing ivy wrapped around a house it cannot let go of,

these are beautiful things, haunted as Chernobyl wolves mute to moon.

This New Year’s Eve my hair is so grey its as if my fire has turned to smoke and ruin,

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