Waking Up

We wake to the rumbling thunder of blood,
Pumping hearts, twisted hearts, this shadow and I
Squeeze into the thick silences of trees.
Soon the dark lights of Christmastide will afflict us
Twilight memories drift, flux and flicker
In this breeze of Time,
Penumbra-beginning, hologram-end,
Such pungent affirmations, slip into a past that does not last:
Generations of suffering: eyes lifted to a cross, a crescent, a menorah,
Yearnings spilling onto the pages of history…

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John E Marks

John E Marks

I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can