Poetry: So, Such, Some by Eoghan Lyng

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

Cold.

 

45282862_10215816491518042_8165781622054977536_nEoghan 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.

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