The Oak!A Poem by Thomas Fitzgerald
A nightmare I had many years ago that alwasy stayed with me, this is my lok at it.
Perfect cracked lines damage polished oak,
a pool of hardened lacquer supports weight,
Silence for hands perched within symmetry,
daring questions not answered at the gate.
The glare of eager eyes folds liquid tears,
memory losses it's last when needed score,
Dark encased in bricks rolled in mortar,
spines tell stories of useless plain lore.
Glimmers of sparks make noise from behind,
no face to a friend’s hand does use guile,
I suffer the torments of anger at rest,
she screams of laughter at the blooded smile.
Dreams surface on pages lost to the pen,
no wood without scars made ample red,
Fools dart into danger at first impulse,
the stranger made sense of quietened dead.
© 2011 Thomas Fitzgerald
Wexford, Leinster, Ireland
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