The Bar Of Grief

Upturned bottles once lined with military order
on dusty, termite-rotten shelves. Fingerprints,
clear spaces of use, caught by the shafts of daylight
through pin-holes where nails have been.

A puddle of spilt pain, beneath an upturned bench.
Life, wasted in boozy stench lies forgotten,
punished for excess, while determined creatures
march with hunger towards rotten snacks.
Dirt's secret world survives in semi-darkness.

Corrugated walls, rushing-red and brown. Drips
where rain had been, left tracks as if guiding
to the next place. A dark, dank, mud-bed
suitable for long soft round things
to slither and slide through eyes now closed.
Still focussed on nightmare dreams, gone before.

Many of my poems are now available as KINDLE Poetry Chapbooks on
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by Frances Macaulay Forde

Comments (2)

No, (in case anyone was wondering) I am not and never have been troubled with alcohol. In fact, I can't drink because it poisons me... but I can imagine.
Hi Frances Finally - time to read and write! This millenium is already too crowded! I like the human essence that pours through objects of this poem - objects of pain and what is hoped to be forgotten. But now charge it with your own heart - but make a new poem. I suppose that's a non-criticism - a new door. Anne