I talk to you now in the language
of gods and demons,
the lexicon of the living but
the words that sounded so good on paper
turn to cloying dust in my mumbling mouth,
a fool stammering and stuttering to force them out.
Ink, once my saviour now my sin.
words pressed hard into burning skin
A conjurer of hurt, deceit and spin
My pen, once verbose, now sullenly spitting words
that drain from a well of sleep or death,
a reservoir of tears and tangled fears and regret.
I don’t recognise the words as my own
but the messages stands alone.
I rake over the ashes and the cold remains,
the images and the echo of old noise.
I talk to you now
in the language of gods and demons.
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com