This night, I walk within empty echoes Of waist-deep weary fog, sinking to The crumbling floor of futility Dripping minutes bleed through cracked Rusty hours, as wafting feathers Of broken rest circle dreams Devoid of lullabies-- In waning monotone Pillow smothered murmurs Cover breath of crushed voices Not even stealing a skeletal whisper Past my withered lips. Michelle Faulkner lives outside Portland, OR, with her husband, her cat Little Miss, and her dogs Mr. Peabody and Sherman. Her work has appeared in The Literary Yard, Alternate Route, Westward Quarterly, Sparks of Calliope and others. She has also been published in two poetry anthologies, PS: It’s Poetry and PS: It’s Still Poetry, both available on Amazon.com, and also in several upcoming anthologies from Poet’s Choice. When not writing, she enjoys true crime shows and watching the Food Network, although does not actually cook.
John C Watt
5/17/2023 09:26:17 pm
Michelle, your use of disjointed word pairs (empty echoes, dripping minutes, rusty hours, crushed voices, skeletal whispers) set a brilliant tone of midnight sleeplessness, tinted with mild despair, bordering on thanatopsis. Insomnia can be one of the loneliest of maladies, and the many hours of waiting for the light are the longest of hours. You have captured this nocturnal disquiet excellently in your succinct poem: compact is impact! Congratulations on being published here... simply superb. Comments are closed.
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