Last of the Line

photo credit: Soap Creatives Time travel via photopin (license)

photo credit: Soap Creatives Time travel via photopin (license)

A time of dying
Leaves no one alive to keep
Memory alight.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Nothing

I keep hearing that song.
That song you played
When you were still something.
When you were still alive.

I remember you placing
Your hand in mine, trusting
You had the moments left
To do anything.

You had your whole life.
A million breathes to take,
A whole life and everything.
When you were still alive.
 

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Too Blind

Day 9 of the review – and a poem about ‘too much’

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: Standing at the Gates of Hell via photopin (license) photo credit: Standing at the Gates of Hell via photopin(license)

I can’t see you,
Just the echoes
Where you used to be.
Because I’m a lost boy
Confused about the direction,
Whether I’m heading
For heaven or hell.
For I stopped feeling
When I started bleeding
Many moons ago.
And all that’s left
Is half a bottle of whiskey
And these scars
That keep my eyes shut,
I’m down on my knees
Begging for redemption
Knowing the game is up.
For there is just an absence
A black hole in the aether
And the echoes
Where you used to be.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Drifting

 

I didn’t see, I never heard
The silences lengthen.
I never noticed that you had drifted
From out of my embrace.

I never missed your gentle caress.
I never stopped to consider,
I never stopped to just care.

When did we stop dreaming together,
When did I start building walls.
I didn’t see, I never heard
Until I heard the slamming door.
 
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 27 March 2015

Shipwrecked

Shipwrecked

To the night another soul
shipwrecked on the rocks.

For the night’s not over
‘til all hearts are lost.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 13 January 2015

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Amnesia

She’s falling,
Memories drift away.
All the pills in creation
Won’t save her.
These failing reminiscences
She clings to can’t bring back
The brightly coloured yesterday now gone.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Stillness

 

Foetal,
Legs curled up beneath you,
This chair a womb of tears.
Crying for its absence,
Heart beating no more.
 
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Too Blind

I can’t see you,
Just the echoes
Where you used to be.
Because I’m a lost boy
Confused about the direction,
Whether I’m heading
For heaven or hell.
For I stopped feeling
When I started bleeding
Many moons ago.
And all that’s left
Is half a bottle of whiskey
And these scars
That keep my eyes shut,
I’m down on my knees
Begging for redemption
Knowing the game is up.
For there is just an absence
A black hole in the aether
And the echoes
Where you used to be.

© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

The dying of an adult child

Day 7

Made of sticks and stones

There may be grey in your hair.

Your skin may hold a deathly pallor.

But as I wipe the sweat from your brow

I think of the seven year old

Bike riding, hair wildly flying

And you will always be that child to me.

 

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Embers

Let us kick off the Review 30 for November with the opening chapter of something I’ve been working on; other than world domination.

Made of sticks and stones

As I said at the beginning of the week I have been working hard on a new project. This has developed out of the final exam project for the University module I completed in the last academic year; a small idea that has grown and grown, this is its beginning.

photo credit: Phoenix rising, with babies via photopin (license) photo credit: Phoenix rising, with babies via photopin(license)

Chapter 1

A shout from one of her clan sisters brought her back to the moment. All the clans were coming together, flying south. She had never seen so many of her own kind before, eighty at least and more shapes appeared on the horizon all the time and slowly coalesced into the distinctive shape of more lizard birds.

Most were brown like her family. Some were grey, the winter sun glinting silver off of gleaming plumage, while others still appeared to sparkle an iridescent blue, light dripping on to their feathers…

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