by 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
