Monday, 3 December 2018


All Shall End

A glass that cannot be drunk from, 
jagged on its rim to rip a mouth.
Wine spilt upon the table.
The pen that will not write.
The boat smashed upon a shore.
The car a wreck to nowhere.
Blood drips on the porch
from a top room 
till the stain spreads.
All shall end.

JHM Dec 2018

The people of my dreams are the people of my youth. Hope is gone and there is no future. I march towards death bravely. But the route is set for me. There are no turnings, no detours I can take. It is a road set without choice or possibilities.

Awake I get on with my life and all is normal with no conscious concern. I laugh, I work, I chatter and I write. But the dreams seem to tell it all, and I write a poem of nightmare dreams. Each Christmas, each New Year, is counted on an abacus whose beads rattle away the years. My deeper mind teems with a storm that will not abate and of which, awake, I am unaware.

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