The past grows bony fingers
that stretch and cast an ice shadow
lingering on my throat.
The creeping chill was seeded seasons ago
in my rush through frosted daffodils,
swaying defiant and brush-stroked in vibrancy.
Impatience fluttered its winking white wings,
enticed me further in,...
Death is a woman.
She cuts from the cloth of time
the shroud of kings and waits
counting each grain, each day
the last one falls.
Hourglass curves flow,
a granular avalanche.
Whose eyes watch them?
While steel blades swing
and ropes bind and pull,
men roar, the blood pours...
it was a scarlet hour...
The rushing recedes, leaves me
bitten by the workings
of my teeth and lips.
Regrets leak through my palms.
I raise my chin, facing the children
that sprung from the scarlet hour.
Mummy, it’s dark in here - this recess
This swirling malice caught in my optical memory
Of dark matter floating in the milky cosmos
In my alienated mind. Please…help me?
These walls shiver; liquid thin they whisper
Like the breath of knives, so close, so close -
Not haunted by my grisly dreams
the grip of unknown fears, of
The things not seen.
Wrought in the crowbar-vicious reality
Smashing wings in derision
of searing angels in death replete.
And through the oppressive streets:
Advertising mercenary dreams
thrum of ghost town ‘evacuees'
like the zeitgeist oppression
of a room full of executives
fat-cat’s ultra pay checks - big decisions
Sometimes, the murkiest of butterflies
the oubliette of your eyes
and the brutal wings
the panic of drowning arms
in an ocean of skies.
These geriatric wards, housing
some meagre-life; on the slow march
like an infirmary of snails
with wrinkled feet, dragging the slime
from pools of drool
sat in the stale-stench of degrading piss
or worse still,
Sometimes abandoned like chess pieces –
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