Poem of the Day — Lane of Detour

Lane of Detour
Trucked, trailing behaving morosely

Hardly a ghostly glance, slithering in through gaps in the membrane

Flutter in part, a grieving action

A loss of particular excitement

Re-address and label an interested desire

The room, with bent pennies mounted on tissue paper stands

The window black mould steaming sweat and sun block smeared on tanned underbellies

The dead family pictures shining like a mausoleum

I open the draw to a squeak of hardwood

As the memories rustle again in a fortress of habits

The same in the passage, with dust choking, closing openings, covering perspectives

The uncomfortable atmosphere

A trembling mind spectre; a stream of terror

As buried memories ooze like black blood from a hat stand

Slipped on glass that the mother smashed when her husband left home

No longer able to penetrate

The mists and gut wrenching realities of all the timid treading, the egg shells

He just was slipping away whilst supping gently on age old claret

Or was it the old Bordeaux

Like a rich man’s coat

Wrapped in idolatry

A mistletoe marriage

Beaming in unison

Smashed in solitude

Oiled in hospital bed clothes

Cut from inside


Not afloat

Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright May 29th 2015`

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