As I looked down at your ashes
I saw only your scattered dreams;
Now that only your silence speaks
I gather together your story lines
to unfold your history,
turn and twist it into shape,
teasing the syntax of the discrepancies.
It is hard to proofread your life:
each passage lacks commas,
paragraphs embracing phases.
Events tumble into each other,
I work through, adding commas
to each hesitation,
blackening full-stops at each fracture:
each new chapter,
trying to find a continuity, a thread:
Trying to make sense of it all:
Your short story that should have been a novel.
Copyright © 2nd December 2018 Colin Whyles