Sound, Unsound

To wake is an annihilation.
The wool gathered 
Blown and scattered
In draughts of sound that flap from above.

And the want to grasp at facts
Is killer;
The want to seal the cracks
Is bigger
Than any bribe 
A dream might offer.

Now the light steals in
All hasty and foolish and brilliant,
As it comes again —
A grinding noise, metal on metal, intermittent.

 
 
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #3: Last Sentences, which required that the last sentence in the text must be used as given. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tania Braukamper is an Australian-born writer and photographer living in Portugal.

 

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