the corsets of consciousness

the grave i dug was deep and wide

room for two, a view of the sky

but i was buried alone, just flesh and bone

the coffin was covered with dirt and stones

 

some people prayed, some tears were shed

the coffin contained me and claimed me as dead

the morals and lessons of my life and my death

were freely discussed by those with a breath

 

sometimes when i start a poem in my head

the words that are green are seen as red

but distant novembers can never compare

to spring time in autumn deceiving the air

 

the corsets of consciousness close down the mind

mother is waiting and always unkind

i’m reaching the reason i started this poem

was it the seasons or phrases i’ve coined?

 

or is this another stream of consciousness poem

no reason for writing, just words i have joined

 

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