Poetry
Writing poetry whenever a moment or thought inspires and primarily working in free verse, Morgan uses samples of his poetry as post scipt entries at the end of his novels. Below is a selection of recently written poetry not currently associated with a novel.
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Novel poems are only availble within the novels themselves.
I open my eyes, after what feels like an eternity,
and look again, awash with feelings of disbelief.
The satin red lining rippled like the frozen surface of a disturbed pond,
surrounded by a timber dark and luxurious, rich in texture and hue,
raised up on hinges that I know will not squeak when they pivot closed,
and allowing those without, to look within, the stoic casket.
It brings to mind wonderings of a life that might have been,
of meetings that may have blossomed into true love,
of experiences never to be enjoyed,
tastes never to be savoured,
sensations never to be felt.
I stare at the mocking open lid, knowing it is trying to tell me something,
something I’ve missed, something elusive that I have not yet grasped,
something I must know but have refused to acknowledge.
My mind bores into it with all the might I can muster,
exerting my will to force it open more yet, slam it back against the casket side,
ensure that the finality that comes with the closing of it never comes to pass.
But as I focus, so the world becomes less clear.
First about the edges, softening and blurring,
as when sleep closes in after an exhausting day
when you long to stay awake,
then narrowing down, honing my view,
leaving only a tunnel of light through which to observe in horror
as the casket lid is lowered.
And it is in this moment that that unknown truth
became terrifyingly to light -
the casket closes now on I.
I remember your finals words to me,
cold and indifferent,
thrown back over your shoulder
as you walked casually away,
your heels clicking on the driveway:
“You should have seen this coming.”
In all honesty I did,
though I was afraid to admit it,
even to myself.
It was reflected in your eyes,
the way you’d look at me
and then right past me,
as if you couldn’t bear your gaze
to rest upon the sight of your guilt.
It was in the way you held me,
our embraces no longer strong and warm,
but brief and efficient,
like hugging an unfamiliar Great Uncle.
It was in your voice,
in the way you spoke,
the tones you’d use,
and the way you’d snap simple comments.
But mostly I should have seen it coming,
buried not in the words you chose,
but rather in the words that you failed to choose,
and not hearing those words,
those three simple, meaningful words,
should have warned me clearly that the end was nigh.
The bitterness seems rooted deep within,
bound to the very core of my being,
unyielding and enduring,
everlasting and perpetual,
forever a radio beacon transmitting,
it’s waves and signals twisting my mind.
Even with a smile on my lips and a gleam in my eye,
as joy enters my day and takes me by the hand,
still I am tainted with that bitterness,
and the corners of the smile tighten a little,
the gleam edged with the faint trace of a tear.
Permeating through all
soaking
enveloping
saturating
engulfing
every essence of my soul.
Like a plovers’ call echoing through the day,
into the dusk and evening,
long past midnight,
through the early morning
and on to the faintest dawn of a new day and beyond,
so the bitterness is my everything and my all,
every passing second
of each long minute
stained with a pain inescapable.