Saturday, November 30, 2013


The water of life is stilled
and I watch
as in slow motion
the falling eyelashes of snow
whisper me towards sleep
each and every fractal variation
yet unstained
by hormonal recreation

life is the messy one.

From orifices that weep and secrete,
and defecate,
weaved between soiled and tangled sheets,
in oyster stains drawn by semen filled sacks,
we find little deaths:
preambles in the dark.

All men, and beasts,
and sentient things
fear death's embrace
whether it comes gently,
or without warning,
because death reorganises,
base elements once more
in concert.
©Niall OConnor 2012

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