Quick to blame, to lift a finger

My pulse goes faster, breath turns fatal

The eyes absorb my surroundings and my brain wanders

Casts a mirror at the figures surrounded, crying or laughing there is no difference

Entwined in agony, these figures reach out, for me in the centre

They cast their thoughts to the sea, a net over saneness

To think of a path less travelled to balm their suffering souls

Perjure me to be the priest, the confessional and their Maker

Decide whether all their breath was for naught and

Perhaps hasten to meet their Maker

When all I am is but a simple person


Poetry that is not mine: hi(s)tory

softly love and to love softly
dew on the sycamore branch
by the creaking gate
where my heart hurries afterwards
through the path of wheat along the briar
to that stone under which I lie

credit: The Tudors