Clasping the throat of what came before,
its final breath seemed an endless waking,
so that I had come to expect nothing
would give - sackcloth, not your soft skin,
the single line of your mouth, not the warmth
of your breath, deadly silence, not your glorious
song, an end,
not the renewal of all things,
beyond the furthest reaches of our imaginations.
So today we dance, scarred,
we sing, and only this:
Leave the dead to bury the dead,
we have light and life
we never knew existed.
Andrew Senior is a writer of poetry and short literary and speculative fiction, based in Sheffield, UK. His work has been published in various places, including Ekstasis, Fathom and Story Warren.
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