Days of greyness.

Misery hugs me,
a blanket of such weight
that it bows
my rounded shoulders,

the days of greyness
gathering,
like the twilight of existence.
My eyes old and rheumy
full of grit but not of learning,
tacky with the dust of wanted sleep.

My mouth stitched shut
by words too black to speak.
My tongue, timber,
dried of sap and growth.
Hands held silent,
in prayers of mumbling.

I am aged,
a walker on a mountain trail,
horizons all past
and yet the mountains rise.
I am tired.
My feet numb
and soaked in warm viscous blood.
Every step I take,
a yard towards death.

Over my shoulder
is all I left behind,
Sweetness
under self -seeded flowers,
the sound of play,
sunlight streaming
through schoolhouse windows,
open fields
and a sighthound
running down his shadow.
Echoes.

So much to do,
a mind confused
and doubtful of tomorrow
and still I grieve,
the books unread,
the words I should have said,
the kisses and the kindness
I withheld.

I am hollowed out,
hands draw down
the innards of a parched soul,
a final examination of conscience
finds I am still wanting.

-Dave Kavanagh

Some days are so black and others so full of colour. Thanks for reading.

3 thoughts on “Days of greyness.

  1. So much depth and grace and beauty of the words, etched and very textural, despite the subject matter, though that seems to bring a lot of what is missing if you suffer in one way or another. I thoroughly enjoyed this.

    Liked by 1 person

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