Lost Souls


part of: Poetry

by David Barnes

It was the wrong season
to reach beyond ambiance;
in retrospect
I should have stayed in bed,
waited another season, another time.
The suns ray’s claw
tearing night’s shroud, revealing mist hovering,
lingering… a lover
trembling for release from earth’s bed.
I reached for you beside, futile,
you who I do not know,
in this silent solitude:

Its self-enlightening
coping isolated—
Dementias leap at you devour you
entice you.

I consider this dramatic joy
when space rushes up at you
to swallow you in deepest shadows,
when light touches inner fibre;
falling I call the wind, the elements to my side,
burrow in autumn’s faltering bed.
If you hear anguished storms,
know they pass
across this island, cast in remoteness:

I reach for you
who ever you are; rise
break in to my existence…
waves across a desolate rock, pounding
to your touch:
We will meet at the next juncture
When the mist rises clear,
Where sails touch horizons,
Where twilight is absorbed
Setting patterns of tomorrows

I wait for you.