Tuesday, 8 November 2011

The Autumn Dusk

The grey wash fog sits,
Like cotton-wool, languid
Upon the conifer's green surf,
Twinkling like a rush hour star
To the blind, deaf, and dumb.

The nip of unloved hearts sting,
Flesh red raw, lingering
In the treacle blood trail,
Oozing over skin to every open door,
Saturating everything in deathly silence.

The damp rag of earth underfoot,
Like the soft pillow, wet
With a widow's first night alone,
Deeply dark, leaving dank footprints
To all who come her way.

The candle-light, and the car-light,
Silently disagreeable in a time
Of neither night nor day,
Lost and floating in a cloud,
All that was solid has been lost.

The stark unfinished collage,
Like ideas on a white-washed wall,
Of bricks, mortar, flesh and bone,
Capillarous hairs stretch out across the void:
Blood on porcelain, heading for the plug.

The envious sick is all that survives
The drain, like the untying of a balloon,
Slowly, all shades of grey and off-white
Are dragged away, as the table cloth
From all that exists, leaving only the night.

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