We All Lie Unfinished

August 3, 2013

At break-neck speed

a moth circles the glowing

bulb above. It whirls around

like a dog-fighting spitfire,

while below a rat emerges

from beneath a wicker chair.

The two don’t think of each other,

they don’t even imagine.

But rats love moths

as moths love flames.


The bulb has faded

replaced by a still white light

that I cannot turn to see

but which I know is the moon.

The moth is high. I could reach,

but I can’t get up.

I can’t even begin to move, blink,

or start a single breath.

The rat has become a silhouette.

His eyes tiny black baubles

set with a small pure pearl

of reflected moon.

And he has frozen,

transfixed on something,

the moth maybe,

which clings to its bulb

that no longer shines.


The rat can’t reach the moth.

I could reach, but I can’t get up.

If only I could get up

from this still-life canvas

where I lie on the edge of my bed

ceiling-bound and held

waiting for my time to move again

where time is forfeit

and I remain

only to lie unfinished.





  1. May I reblog this?

    • Sure, can, Sahm! You have a broad mix of styles and I’ve seen a lot that I like. I started following your blog as I hope to read more. Thanks for words! AJG

  2. Reblogged this on The Arkside of Thought by Sahm King and commented:
    This piece is pretty deep. Definitely a must read. Check it out, my friends!

  3. sometimes the printed page can come alive and move around you like a scene from a movie – your piece just did that – great writing!

    • Humbling comment. Thanks a lot!

      • your welcome – its true.

  4. Great poem

  5. moving…great poem!

    from this still-life canvas
    where I lie on the edge of my bed
    ceiling-bound and held
    waiting for my time to move again

    Haunting imagery.

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