Claddagh

The crack that lets light in,

No hinges or a lid.

Light serves no purpose

As life’s gravity well

Eats all it touches.

Broken instruments

Make little sound

Only the death moan

Of the lost orchestra

Singing to the dream

Of Eurydice.

Living in Plato’s cave,

Chains forged from

Warm bodies embrace

In years of spring mornings and

Warm summer afternoons.

Hot nights in white satin

Replaced with the long slow bleed

As years are peeled away

Exposing only the black core

Lying beneath.

A forgotten language

Leaves dust on the tongue,

Sweet kind eyes

Stir the deep forgotten thoughts

Strangled in their crib

Before given legs to run.

Tomorrow came a day to soon.