Irrelevance

a pandemic poem on loneliness

Photo by ella peebles on Unsplash

separate, does it matter
if I am here, or not here
the roses open
only to lose their petals

I am finding it difficult
to justify my breath,
these words like breadcrumbs
tossed to the sea

once, maybe I believed
I could be
your bluebird
trapped in a bottle

tiny music you’d carry
like a pillbox
or some harp-less angel
you might enjoy feeding seeds

but my songs make no joy,
my throat a typewriter,
voice a hacking cough
producing scraps of paper

and everything I’ve spoke
into the void
was just the kindling
for this bed of smoke

a Viking funeral
without the metaphor
of a ghost
clasping the sword