Memoirs

MEMOIRS

A story or two
They’d tell out
These folded fingers
If gifted a fresh blush of
Lips, palate, tongue

A blessing this perhaps
Or rather more a curse
Or better still the both
A confession, an absolution
Each sat astride its mirror

Hubris swallowed, spat out
These crablike fingers
Clutching at straws
While nearby a camel
Patiently awaits a breaking

Oh, what a story
They would spill
Then two then three
Then four than five
These mottled fingers

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on June 14, 2017, in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.

  1. A masterpiece – what more to say? Eloquent, poignant, wistful…..

    Liked by 1 person

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