A man walks out and is already dead
and through the front door he gracefully steps,
a hollow feeling of uncertain dread
into a frosty midnight of heaven’s depth.
Evening frost drifts like fine cigarette smoke
where the reaper’s breath taunts the glowing host,
an abreaction of prayer abstained with hope
befooled by a half-worldly town of ghosts.
A man strolls in his formless reflection
on purple leaves rigid with frost,
facess passengers pass in dejection
to reserved heavens of the lost.
The reaper binds the tarnished breath of man
an in-between world of earthly substance,
this bitter dreamscape of shattered white lands
a feral mirror to death’s resistance.
MJ DUGGAN.
‘The reaper binds the tarnished breath of man…’. What a powerful line this is.