My peace is there in the proceeding mist
when I may please from shreading long sanguine thresholds
lacking a space of a door that opens,
the focus in on the breath of a man
dying on his star crossed spaced
waste in his old mack on a park bench.
My pain sits there from the changing rain
where I pry myself in a whispered wisecrack
lusting an arm to hold around my closed neck,
the changes the eyes of a woman
longing on the changed cold terrace
posit does it do the temptation out.
My tear asks itself where the story ends
why it ended on such a note instead of buying
itself a hand to wonder where it would
the strings that hung itself from a curtain
certain of the success a Winter’s night
would wind it from a shelf.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.