The voiceless dead come to greet us

in softened shoes that fold like kidskin,

faces sculpted by time’s microbic caresses

to a blind and mirthless grin.

‘Ah’ they don’t say; ‘Oh’ they don’t cry,

deaf and blind to hear or see those things

like the summer swallow wings

that flock and flutter through a cloudless sky.

For these the crafted poem holds no sense

and the promises of lovers of no consequence.

Gone the desire for acquisition,

gone the option to forgive:

so live for this moment you who can.





Mike Mcnamara
Illustration Nick Victor

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