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.

2 thoughts on “Spoken Journal

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