She was a fragile acrobat
on broken rooftops of escape
jumping into arms euphoric
before pain had time to register.
Armies advance across steppes,
houses gutted for sustenance.
Machine guns and home-made
grenades zipping over walls.
He dreamed a nest of miracles
a golden goose in the attic;
sad executions on frozen earth
while skies remain indifferent.
The world is a tragic dancer
up in blind spaces of oblivion
running into arms euphoric
before pain has time to register.
John Short lives in Liverpool. A previous contributor to The Cabinet of Heed, he has appeared most recently in South Bank Poetry, One Hand Clapping and The Lake. His pamphlet Unknown Territory (Black Light Engine Room Press) was published in June 2020. He blogs sporadically at Tsarkoverse.
Image via Pixabay
The Cabinet of Heed 