THE TORMENTED
- Mar 14
- 1 min read
By Helen Laycock
Water-thin,
silver-hemmed figures bloom
and fade like
failing lighthouses in the between-
world as they search
for barren heartwrecks.
They are soft-light,
starved moths
long-crept
from castle-dank
and hospital-rust to
this griefsea,
powdering crepuscule
with the blown chalk
of doused lives.
Sibilant-whisperers,
they sing in minor keys,
transient laments wheedling
into the shells of the sleeping
stricken.
Snowbreath-featherers,
hair-lifters,
they tide lavender and smoke,
tender-tugging cocoons,
coldtapping warmth
for a bolt of life to sluice
their blue
while I tread the waves
raking driftwood for a buoy.