by David Riddell
silence and so to the procession, a silent progression this grieving process but a procession has a beginning and an end, sackcloth and ashes from dust to dust from hell to hell that long obtuse black tunnel with dark cylindrical walls, that horizontal journey into nothingness where receding light is just a pinprick at the tubes end a black hole a yawning chasm an ever downward spiral a bottomless pit a suspension in space, grief clings like a second skin needing a constant shedding of the one emotion but that persistent anaconda returns to slowly asphyxiate the mind, censored, pushed back into the far recesses of the mind to fester haunt and possess, to reappear when least expected in word and deed with devastating consequences, oh wretched one who can save me from this state of being ? ......silence
David Riddell is 68 years old. He is married to his lovely wife of 43 years and has four adult sons. David has been writing poetry for nearly 20 years. His writing inspiration comes from personal experience and from listening to music. He likes to play with words, particularly words which hold double entendre. David also has a strong interest in Theology, Australian politics and Christianity.