Even now, on the quivering edge
of winter solstice, the nights
are not dark enough to shroud
or obscure his mania of picking
at scabs of every promise unkept.

Even now, when the most muted moonlight
irk with its ludicrous sparkle
of a hope he prefers to stay buried
in the ash of every poem unwritten.

Moonlight by Edvard Munch

Joining very late to Magaly’s prompt at toads where we use lines from Kerry’s poems to write our own. This close to winter solstice “the nights are not dark enough” seems to fit.

December 15, 2019

12 responses to “Unwritten

  1. There are very few things that can obscure that compulsion, especially depending on one’s frame of mind. The winter night can only do so much.

  2. It’s just so hard not to linger on the things that could’ve been, on the tales that should’ve been told (lived)… even when we know that it’s best to move on. And perhaps, we even do… move on, but the taste of unshared ash is so powerful.

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