Poetry

Silence Taunts

Are these my  hands?                                                                                   They're mangled lumps of flesh.                                                                   Blisters raw and nail-beds torn.                                                                        They can't be part of me - yet                                                                            still they do as they are bid: more than my dry throat                                          that cried your name and words of hope                                                             and sobbing prayers unanswered:                                                                 

"Hang on in there! Don't give in! We'll be with you quite soon!!"                              But still the pile of rubble stands:                                                                          a mocking modern cairn.                                                                                  And every step on bricks I take                                                                              I fear will spell your doom.                                                                                 But if I rest, then can you wait?                                                                         And silence taunts more than your screams -                                                     and those I'll hear forever.

(c) Janval Phagan 2002