Spoken Journal

I am opening my journal now. This was written on the 20th of January 2018. I have huge bags under my eyes. I have not been sleeping well. And as you can hear, it is nerve wrecking to do it, but it is part of the healing process. I slur, I pause and I make mistakes. The mummies were hosts – to ghosts. .

. Irish Memoirs .

.

I do not write to put you on show.
I write so I do not let go
Of these memories lived in this Irish plateau.

.

Writing allows me to remind
It takes me back in time
When you were by my side.
This is my time-travel device.
The only way “we” stay alive.

.

The first time we met,
Was inside the tram cafe
In Wolfe Tone Square.
I could not see your face,
Some old music played,
I first saw your hand,
on the table layed.

.

Our smiles confirmed our stance
As our eyes would constantly glance.
We started this wavy dance
Who would take the first chance?

.

We went to St Michan’s Church
We kissed under the tree with urge
The graveyard saw us merge.
Who knew this to be our scourge?!

.

The mummies were our hosts
To this gathering of lost ghosts.
On that park where the ducks boast
We untied all the knots and bolts.

.

The day was ending, to our distaste
I solely wish you could have stayed!
We gave ourselves a last embrace.
You left. My heart, since, lacerates.
Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Spoken Journal

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s