Consummations Colours
Reading Time: 2 minutes
Strands of golden web abound, and silver ties here with there. There is a settling of old bones – yet not as old as might have been; the days, scythed away, silently. The rouge has drained from the skin; has dripped relentlessly from the open wound of disease. And even though this blight was there the spirit still maintained your life. Now, pallid grey-blue’ish tones suck my eyes to see him – He with his lowered jaw, and lids, and I see the face of the Christ hung from the cross… elongated. Violet heralds the advent of his life’s certain moment – and though I do not want its touch to come upon my dying dad, I wish it not to more delay. The cold blue mist of silence descends on the Friday ward. The air is stilled and dust motes stay suspended, as is life itself. Now his occult breath is easy. Colours mist my tearful eyes – selfish tears of my sorrow for too much time spent divided; not wept for him who gave me life – he is beyond the need of them. Britain never gave him gold for inhaling it’s wartime dust – making weapons for the devil. No medal to pin on his chest – there is… …just the touch of my pale-pink hand. © Allen Ansell 2023
Thoughtful and wonderful poem.
You can certainly see your writing skills in your work. All the time go after your heart.
Hi there, I discovered your website by means of Google, it seems great. I've bookmarked it in my google bookmarks.
Thanks for sharing!
I am genuinely thankful to the holder of this website who has shared this .