a post


and although i have failed

i feel that i have lived

and live still.



I remember my little room,

the hard bed by the window

pane. I liked winter best,

the frosted glass,



the white sun struck

the day. i was in love

with everything.


at night, strung

like a dream, i lay

upon the sheet,


rose again; bowed

to the solemn street

below. I was


alone with

nothing to live

for but this,


and i was happy then

i thought – i knew

there was nothing


i could do.


30 March 2016

6 Responsesso far.

  1. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    have revised part III of poem. think it’s better

  2. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    Thanks Peter. I’m happy about that

  3. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    Fantastic, Marco, I loved that ‘bowed to the street’, the pacing of it seems perfect to me!

  4. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    thanks John: memory and peace – in contrast to my last comment!

  5. john keast john keast says:

    A post or no, it’s a lovely poem, all memory and peace

  6. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    ah fuck, the poem’s called 1983 – not ‘a post’!

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