alfie lee writing


What lies

under this compacting,
bones in a sentence of suppose?
Are you sleeping or are you dead?
Did i leave behind my clues on the bedspread?

Who are you to tell me? i did
what i thought was right. My actions
defined only by
my having to define.

The heart beats to its own
dying, winding down
its clock, the sum of lives begone,
difference of loves begot.

It's you who give me
meaning, the promise of all i'm not,
lying there in the choke off
this beat up old cliché of a thought.


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