It's Still Life

THIS SHALL PASS

Concealed

Those echoes
of ones voice
with no way to rephrase it.
Be of grave cheerfulness,
just because.
Because
shallowness is a fail,
though I’ll not likely
bare my inner shadows.
I’d sooner
starve for my supper.

Chronicled

Again,
I dissolve into an attitude.
Chronicles of dark doubts.
Somethings just go together.
Gin and tonic.
Echoes and echoes.
But the narrative was
not worth repeating.

Culinarius

While mum grew salad leaves
between the marigolds,
I made mud pies and
rolled sun-browned blackberries
in dusty potash.
Small doubts and achievements
that no one noticed,
nor scarce dared eat.

Cloistered

Up in a dusty corner of the garden,
my old dog is buried.
In some future century,
disappointment on learning
it’s only animal bones,
and not the remains of
a small saint from the nearby
cloister whose evening chants
hang in the air as echoing fog.

4MizQ. 26 July Repeater © Misky 2020 image from Unsplash CC:00