Tonight I leave the dead to sleep
as their faint beckonings
resonate and swirl
and sift among
the moss-draped trees
down this path
I travel long beyond
a corridor of
shallow fields
and through the murk
of unknown grief
The deep angst of the marsh
a fog of silky spiderwebs
the contours of it all
lighted by
the luminous face of the moon
half-hidden, half pretending
pulling me into
the splendid spinning
convex of time
Count the steps
on hallowed ground
take up the chisel
carve into stone
your finest salute
to the folded years
and to the tragic mystery
whispered here
About the Creator
Lana Broussard
Lana Broussard writes primarily under the pen name, L.T. Garvin. She writes fiction, poetry, essays, and humor. She is the author of Confessions of a 4th Grade Athlete, Animals Galore, The Snjords, and Dancing with the Sandman.
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Gossamer
"Murray! Wake up!" He loved that period between waking and dreaming. To him, it was like entering another dimension; more of a dreamscape than dreaming itself. There was an otherness to it that he wanted to grasp and yet deeply respected the fact that it could never be his totally. This is what gossamer was; flighty and light, a wisp of smokiness, an idea suggested but not fully revealed, a slit in cloth, a copse in the wood.
By Rachel Deeming6 days ago in Fiction
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