Through a Bar Darkly

A short poem to write on a wet and wintry Sunday afternoon

Photo by Tobias Tullius on Unsplash

Still there,

I waited long for you,

but you didn’t see it happen.

You gave me an idea

and waited in the queue,

down alleys and fountains of relief,

the outstretched lonely arms that

always held me, lifetimes away,

and always

reaching still.

#

Known no number I could give

to start a countdown,

and prophesies of war,

that makes then breaks

the engrave of your face,

wherever I am, whoever I am,

on the journey to nowhere,

or ancestral caves of existence,

picking up paper trails,

already pixilated,

and eating breadcrumbs

of the forest’s dark past,

breathing in, breathing out,

the anorexic finger through the bar,

the past still to happen,