galaxyby Attila Zønn



It’s this horror that wakes me in the night;

the horror of time—finite

Time lost and shallow imprints tread—that

will kill me in the ruts of an old man’s face

Time that quashes the invincibility of youth,

Time that dims the horizon


I hang on a hook

as  a cold wind sheers my frame

and makes my flesh-less bones chime

by the back door I tarnish,

turn blue-green in the cold

I look in with absent eyes

A fire warms the hearth

I knock. It echoes. But no one answers…


Copyright©Attila Zønn 2020