A blossom of old faces stare silently on old walls
none drawn by a human hand just nature in relief.
Some on raw ancient weather washed stone,
others rendered on a lime sand mortar mixed.
Women wearing hats not now seen and hairstyles unique
while men bucolic bellicose frown and stare down.
Others too stay hidden unbidden creatures
seemingly fossilised in servitude to ancient gods.
They are infused amid green leaves to shrunken brown
in hedgerows around wild wooded forests lurking
Barely discernible, threatening my eyes to espy
their existence these the old dead and yet alive!
© MRL October 2016
I am not sure, what you are saying with this poem, friend H ... but it reminded me of me almost violating my professional boundaries with a certain patient of mine ... he paints for therapy and one of his pics struck me so dear ... so dear ... I was ready to buy and pay anything for this pic of his, but my profession doe not allow it ... this patent was eventually discharged into "nowhere never to e seen again" ... but in my mind I still have his artwork ... it will be with me forever ...ya ... and that's how it goes ... Love, cat.
ReplyDeleteI am relating what I see with my eyes and sense within, that after death basically life continues in different forms.
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