The border crossing Picked
movements across countries
A whisper storms though the camp –
Tonight. A bloodless moon,
The rain has stopped.
We pack.
Adam and I roped,
Ehva wrapped,
We tread, soft earth clutching,
Up the hill. North. Past the Star.
Ahead, behind murmurs, children hushed.
Silence. Rustle of leaf on leaf.
The moon drips its severed light
Threads the way. To somewhere else.
A house. People waiting.
Unbroken windows.
Sleeping late into the morning.
A strobe of lights.
The night withdraws.
We’re opened. Penned.
There is a moment life ceases, becomes nothing,
No longer of this Earth, this place of dust and stone
We’re ghosts, displaced, no spaces, bodies to call home,
Just whispers of a dying breath silent fading.
They search.
Nothing is private.
Leave us with nothing.
Push us back. We are nots.
We return, bags of blood and bone,
The dream of crossing closed, postponed.
Hi there,
Your verse becomes more uncomfortable with each re-read. Initially it seems to be narrative with spikes, but soon changes to barbed spikes with a narrative. Hope that makes sense? So well written and intuitive too.
cheers,
Jim
It was not my intention to make the reader uncomfortable. I am merely trying to portray my world, the world I have been in as accurately as I can. This is the narrative of the dispossessed, the ghosts in the machine.
Thank you for reading..