Underground (Poetry)
30th November 2014
It’s hard to know for sure how deep we are —
an inch is like a mile down in the dark.
What roots we share run random — here and there.
This underworld hides every tell-tale mark.
It’s hard to guess what day it is — or night —
or if the hollow moon shines up above —
what time of year — the angle of the sun...
Does anyone remember us with love?
Too black to hazard which direction’s up.
The fathoms of sheer blackness give no clue.
There’s little left to dwell on underground —
no place to go and even less to do.
How long it’s been’s impossible to judge.
Time goes on passing more depressingly —
in life it’s rare to get some P & Q
but death brings an excess of RIP.
Too quiet. No hint of better things to come.
Just tedium forever and a day.
It’s chill and damp and damned uncomfortable
and there’s not a chance in hell to get away.
an inch is like a mile down in the dark.
What roots we share run random — here and there.
This underworld hides every tell-tale mark.
It’s hard to guess what day it is — or night —
or if the hollow moon shines up above —
what time of year — the angle of the sun...
Does anyone remember us with love?
Too black to hazard which direction’s up.
The fathoms of sheer blackness give no clue.
There’s little left to dwell on underground —
no place to go and even less to do.
How long it’s been’s impossible to judge.
Time goes on passing more depressingly —
in life it’s rare to get some P & Q
but death brings an excess of RIP.
Too quiet. No hint of better things to come.
Just tedium forever and a day.
It’s chill and damp and damned uncomfortable
and there’s not a chance in hell to get away.