Hopes and Fears – Poetry

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Hopes and Fears

By J. A. Weymouth

There was something

lost in that sigh.

A paramnesia of windows shutting and

light closing began

in the wake of ideas.

 

Too far lost those ideas tread

(and they don’t remember their true beginnings)

so far away taken, over long shores and hopes, were they.

 

Corrosive/archaic from water.

Water is the fearless patient.

 

What is this wistful feeling?

A searching/yearning/wanting of the things that have passed and have not come.

All that has taken the hand.

 

Beyond question/reasoning to believe that place is only home,

but that home has become corrosive!

 

The head, like the hand, has been taken somewhere

away – mingled by the strain of ideas and journey seeking –

living in that false reality.

 

And I believed in that fantasy.

Hope has taken my hand.

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.