In the afterglow
I shine like a worm.
Verses go swirling round my head again;
The day is pale and grey.
Cracking eggs on the windowsill,
And thawing butter on the radiator.
Cold beams of light
Come in and illuminate
Those bloodstains on the stone.
The warmth is eaten by scraps of wind
Like moths chewing holes in a coat.
Illusions of life as it used to be
Are sitting in the shadows with me
Thinking about those bygone pancakes and tufts of hair.
The wind is alive; singing wistfully round the corners
And whistling shrilly in the cracks.
Black birds peck at the memories;
Each swallowing a separate piece,
Scissory shapes devouring their fabric.
The memories are now but specters:
With no one left to recognize them,
They are strangers in the ghost town;
Drawing designs in whats left of the dust.
Watching silver dragons:
Go curling in the light.
My hair stands on end
The clouds are sizzling in the air;
A storm is coming.
Humming bits of broken record,
I wait in the deathly calm before it hits.
more by Lëaf Ednïwinga
photograph by Kawin Ha