Romeo turned to stone

Great poetry, fantastic imagery.

Dave Kavanagh.

Wind hews deeply,
etching eons and use
into squinting eyes.
Forehead drawn
into a pattern of
waves and lines.

A mouth that frowns
in want of
amusement
in a world bent on
destruction.

He stand among the
privet and the fuscia,
grey mainly but
cultivating a mosaic of
orange moss
on a robed chest.

And on his hands
the red of juice
squeezed
from the darkest
black berries
and processed
in a finches gut.

The clock
turned Romeo to stone,
years alone,
not the death
of Juliette
but the days that
followed.

The loss, not
immediate but
gradual and
paralysing,
the bloody scars of
loneliness.
Egress and exile
to the solitude
of borders and patios,

On stones and flags
and ragged patches of
fading yellow grass
he stands and waits
death to turn him
from stone to flesh.

-Dave Kavanagh

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