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The Woman in White Marble

{Click Marble or visit Books in the main menu}

Wednesday
Nov142018

The River

Tired and brown the river winds down
Through mudflats and derelict houses.
Its steady stream gazed upon by lovers,
Thieves, and untainted children.

Its water courses through cities and towns
And abandoned waterways. Sounds of
Modern distractions held back by
Untamed brambles and gnarled branches.

The river reflects hands held to faces
And absorbs the tears of young men.
Sometimes the shadows of flies twirl
Unpredictably: as is the nature of things.

The river runs on for miles and miles
Oblivious to its surroundings. All are welcome
To gaze upon its hypnotic surface, and try
To fix an eye upon its movement.

But the river moves on from mountain to sea,
And it has no story to tell.

Copyright © 2018 David Swan

Tuesday
Oct092018

Solitary Pilgrim

I sit in the Sahara Desert. Contemplating.

After the war to end all wars finished.

Sun tracing my back. Wishing the world was flat.

All human life vanished in an instant.

Some animals left angry and confused. I their master.

I have the last flower picked from a field in Iran.

Dried and placed between the pages of a book.

I drank the last drop of water from the Indian ocean.

Surviving on tears, till they dried too.

So here I sit. Solitary Pilgrim. The only one with a key.

And always the last to leave.

Slowly the world rotates whittling itself down to an

Apple core. I too whittle away until nothing remains.

And from all around me I hear laughter.

 

Copyright © 2018 David Swan