Sunday, 10 May 2015

The Last Laugh

The last laugh still on my lips
Coughed out
Like some provincial kiss
I hold my breath


My fingertips
Cold                                                                    


It is an art I have not perfected yet
Moulding
To trace the angles and edges
The tongue in the mouth
Like a stone.
It has endured centuries
Of apathy, curiosity and abuse
Cracked
To let the mind pass through


Feeling, with haste
The shattered teeth
The roof, the rivulets
Above, beneath.
It does not have the time to eat.


It tells itself
For  there is a finer thing unwrapped
Like the chime of bells
Once to the metal were so fondly clasped.
There is a task.
There is a task.


Is time passing or am I
I raise life’s hand
To my mouth, by the wrist
Though the skin as dry
And the speech sits
And silence fits


There is the last laugh

Still on my lips.