A Dream?

Separation II (1896) by Edvard Munch

In foul togetherness,

We walked weary,

Of weather,

Of purpose,

And of each other.

Mud clung to our feet,

Our eyes did not meet,

Doors you opened,

Were not for me.

My breath split in half,

Coloured the vision a sickly grey.

You stood apart,

Pointing the way.

At the edge of indifference,

I would be hung,

Half-breath

And scarce a tongue.

  

The Itch

Thought (1895) by Auguste Rodin 

That old itch

To walk away

Is back.

That old itch

To walk away

Without a stomp, kick or a scream,

Is back.

That old itch

To walk away

With nothing but

The smoothening of all furrows,

The lengthening of measured breath,

The swing of the loose end of a borrowed ascetic robe.

That old itch

Is back again.

Clutch the ground

With twenty toes.

Ball your fists,

Lock those nails.

Let the face crease

With every passing breeze.

Don’t let placid waters

Drown the flickering dream.

Beware,

That old itch

Is back again.