Holly Ducarte

Writing, Adventure, and Intrigue

1 note

The Forgotten Man

Vacant heart and echoing rooms
Wicker chairs and bristle brooms
Webs of dust dangle, dripping with dew
Lopsided wall hangings, pictures of you
Cracks in the floorboards creak out a song
A morose nocturne tells of all that went wrong
Wax dripping beads upon stacks of old books
Jackets with patches on tarnished bronze hooks
The smell of old memories gets harder to bear
Coffee grounds and cigar ash strewn about with no care
I count the jagged tears on the blue papered wall
Thinking I smell your perfume down the easterly hall
Why does the clock laugh at my expense by the hour?
Why have I given up all the stores of my power?
My empty bottles of brandy and gin set on window panes
Create a dance of wiggling lights in the house when it rains
My eyes are tinted red with the paint of obsession
I am a self-made forgotten man who never learnt his lesson

Written by Holly Ducarte © All Rights Reserved

Filed under poetry poem writing nocturne forgotten sad literature books HollyDucarte

85 notes

Bláthíne

poetry-and-insomnia:

You know I am here,
And that I see you in the clear­ing
Among the acorns and twigs,
Propped up against the oak
In a silken gown ripped at the knee.

From the clutches of Cú Roí
I had taken you, over hills,
And now the acorns are stained
And his men head back.

And you have taken my blade, have you not?

Mem­o­ries of the sod­den path,
The dusty sum­mer track,
Carv­ings in the trees,
Fade with the blackbird’s song.

Lit­tle Flower at the oak’s foot
Holds the mud’s gaze.

©2014 Andrew Wells

(Source: dagdapublishing.co.uk)