Fingerprints – Poetry

Fingerprints

By J. A. Weymouth

 

There is an indentation of the skin.

Deep, thorough as they carry deep, and true.

there is a changing in the eyes – precipitation, condensation –

mellow slumps of the lower eye.

 

She says it

‘s of the truer.

the stiller, still.

 

And less then woken.  The urge to move the glass lips onto the pale ones.

Such shaking and urging.  Thrusting deeper into the mouth.

 

Not so painful but rather an addition to the initial habit.

And yellowing of the printed inner bit.

corner, corned, the cornet.

higher yet.  but not so shrunken.

The Mask – Poetry

The Mask

By J. A. Weymouth

 

A string of thought that is corrosive and intrusive

Is known to be cruel and enlightening – wide eyed and open armed

There is a colour in its mouth – heavy

If heavy was a colour.

 

The mouth is thick with words that do not spit

Words in plenty and enchanting

But they hold back.

We forget their feeling – their depth of spirit.

 

The thought is still there.

It is carried barefoot/homeless over the shoulders as it sinks in

Deep within, straight through that beaten one

Until the alcohol slurps a new idea that then, then it becomes buried.

 

I was buried

In that dark open eye

Through those listless words

Inside a heavy box

Behind an unchanged mask

Always unchanged and forever.