Lightly lies the child
the day grave slept and tired
wears itself on the wind chained ground.
So so tired. They hear a voice tearing
down through the cemetery´s halls
picking the bones of a once breathing boy.
Mirrored, makes the man a faithful
face he faked in blood
to cheer England´s world cup.
Such had failed were they
died the football dream
in the feet that kicked the ball.
Red dawn fades, brittle bones stay.
Pittered he asked where and when
Would he start again?
Some matters mean more in form
Find fare flung some, sealing crypts
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish writer, who writes when he travels.
Writing between Cork, Madrid, Prague and Cambridge, Lyng’s work can be read in Vada Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Poets Reading The News, and Spillwords Poetry.