Promised Land

Sometimes late in the Night
Hearing lost ghosts playing in the stagecraft trees
With an old black&white film running on a background screen
Feeling blind hands reaching through the clocks and mirrors
Feeding time to a burning sawmill the second hand spins
Like a decrepit factory set to default on the promised land
In a soft, frantic still hour, faces emerge from graveyard shadows
Wearing the names that decorate dissolving tombs
'Remember us', they say
Recall the thought, summon back again the day
Only try yourself forgive the sleight
Hand that turns itself against the tide
All returns as though in essence to remind
Of what there is to find within this place
Sometimes late in the Night



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 61 times
Written on 2025-06-22 at 00:13

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