confess their longings
in the loneliness of a
mournfull song, their
sorrows sung and spun
like a black widow’s web
where their hopes are hung
like a slow suicide
as silken threads ensnare
the watchful fly
caught like a shadow
in the corner of one eye


and the hours go by
confessing still
their dreams, their
grievances, loves and
losses and their
silences too
penned in the blood
of another sacrifice


”oh how the flesh lies”


and still the hours go by
confessing nothing
but the beauty of a life
in a poem that never was


6/19/2020 ©Debbie Berk 2020