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A Bleak Night; Disordered Thoughts by George Freek


The night is a clock

without any face,

as it spins

in cosmic cacophony.

Time is as meaningless to it,

as it is to the depths of the sea.

I often question things

To find peace of mind,

but answers are hard to find.

We inhabit a physical world

with spiritual needs.

Muscular clouds make a difference,

disrupting the order of the sky,

but in what does that difference lie?

Flowers wrapped in newspaper

On an empty table

is a metaphor for something,

but who can tell me why?


As if it had a will,

the shadow of an elm

glides down a moonlit street

like water down a hill,

as the trees lose their leaves

with no regrets.

Is it simply time’s way

of collecting its debts?

The trees await another season,

without thought or reason.

I think this fluttering in my chest

is a trapped dove,

with no way of escaping

into some other being.

When I sleep, I feel him

Trying to fly off, lost

and losing his way

in a cosmos, where night

is so black,

it’s often mistaken for day.

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1 Comment

I particularly loved the second poem, George. So many well written lines and images that stay with you after the poem has been read . . . "muscular clouds make a difference", shadows gliding down a moonlit street, the suggestion that trees losing their leaves is time's way of collecting its debts. The final two lines provoke such thought. So well done.

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