insight07's blog

Mr X slept with a lot of stress
Crunching his nerves into ten.
Then, on waking he found
He had nothing at all.
No work that killed him daily
No wife that didn’t understand him completely
No children to disappoint or cry
No boss to tell him to straighten his tie.
There was no body
No fingers no bones
No hair no horns.
In that stillness
The darkness jammed his mind.
Filled every crevice and corner
Till there was no breathing space-
Because that body was no more like
You and I.
It was just a physical being
Unseeing, unfeeling, unfeeling.

Copyright ©Devika Todi. All rights reserved.

View original post


Snow's Fissures and Fractures

Just the other day I thought about dVerse community and how long it has been since I wrote a poem. It feels like waves crashed over me and kept me under water, barely letting me break the surface in time for another inhale. Maybe this old thing I revisited today might push me in the right derection.

Edward Atkinson Hornel - Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic 1881

Edward Atkinson Hornel – Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic, 1881.

Autumn is crashing his bones,
his heart a silent drummer.
Oh, how it drummed so loud
in his waisted summer.

He longs to cry once more,
but it seems his tears
have been used up
in his wasted years.

His hands have been broken
in one too many strife;
he crossed too many lines
in his wasted life.

If only he could feel
just for a moment, whole;
but there is no return
for his wasted soul.

The roots…

View original post 76 more words