Dedicated to a friend.
An echo, a repeat, a minor word
Plays in jest to reflect what’s real.
Memory spurred runs rings round us,
Forgets secrets, thunders the obvious,
Tiptoes like a child through our rooms.
Turn on a light so it won’t lose itself,
Write it all down lest you forget.
This stealth intruder sits in a web
Of wires, waits as a spider would,
Buries itself, twists in deep.
In the dark the tumour grows quietly,
Stealing words, balance and repose.
Echoes in this chamber speak fainter.
An artist draws thoughts on the walls,
A surgeon with a scalpel in the scrawl.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 1, 2020
Dark echo
An echo, a repeat, a minor word
Plays in jest to reflect what’s real.
Memory spurred runs rings round us,
Forgets secrets, thunders the obvious,
Tiptoes like a child through our rooms.
Turn on a light so it won’t lose itself,
Write it all down lest you forget.
This stealth intruder sits in a web
Of wires, waits as a spider would,
Buries itself, twists in deep.
In the dark the tumour grows quietly,
Stealing words, balance and repose.
Echoes in this chamber speak fainter.
A surgeon with a scalpel in the scrawl.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 1, 2020
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