Poetry

On Comfort

On Comfort

I have come
to hold myself like a stone
on the dry palm
of my upturned hand,
to comfort myself
with a calloused thumb.

I have come
not to rest or take light
for a ragged shroud
but to peer from dark centers,
wakeful,
leaving
the pillow with its own life.

I have come for this:
gathering the short night,
stories like fitful dust
taking the air,
words slipping through darkness,
a brief shimmer and shine.

Published by Karen Lee Kleis

18 thoughts on “On Comfort”

  2. Wow, to me the sculpture represents a permanent tribute, fixed eyes on tragic events lie history, and a steady gaze on both good and bad in life through the rise and collapse of time.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

Leave a comment