POEM: MY SCROLL OF OLD

MY SCROLL OF OLD

In the cool and still night when fierce breeze makes trees bend,

Where white sheets of snow spread on naked street

Was all my sunken eyes were spared to see;

Like the pulp of a doctor's finger over weak and thready pulse,

Tracking every bit of blood beating against a bleeding artery,

Hoping to find a jot of life left of the fainting soul who lay helpless;

Here where my breath was vanishing into vivid vapour,

My heart rode on a stallion and strove to make its way into my scroll of old:

There should still be some songs left in my scroll of old.

There sure should be some songs of hope left in my scroll of old;

So I won't let this cord cut.

Imisi