Tuesday, 15 May 2012

Blind-sided By Blindness

I will never be so willing
Extrovert again,
When all about is marred
By gall and veiny wen.

And just like fresh fruit
Taken from the tree,
Perfect in its moment
Never for eternity.

Much like the speech
Book read,
It has to end, and life
Justified by the dead.

Gluttonous greed shadows
Will never sate,
To dig one's grave
To seal all fate.

Caged birds sing
Happy in security,
Only truth can soar
On wings flying free.

Warming milk on the stove
Bubbled over and burnt,
The story of life, the story-book
Read but nothing learnt.

And what was once one
Bruises on fruit no longer fresh,
The amicable and benign
Blistering out of the flesh.

St. Jude (St. Vincent Millay Pastiche)

After all my erstwhile executioner,
My no-longer affable;
Need we say it wasn't love
Just because it's liable.

Monday, 14 May 2012

Sickle Stickle

In solitude by the tearing force,
Sheltered beneath the crag;
Barrelling down the valley
An excruciating gale deafens
From heart, soul, and mind.

I cry not, and care not,
Sheep, hiding all they possess
In secrecy and fear,
Something from me.

Upon mossy rocks,
Over damp boggy fells;
The trickle of stones
Down from the pike,
Unseen desperation.

I cannot see the lost lamb,
Bleating by a beck;
Or smell the sodden rotting flesh,
Ewe, lying dead
As the tarn water dissolves
What meat there was

Taking all over the tearing force,
Pushed on, faster, and faster
By the masterful, unforgiving wind;
Spreading all: settling dust,
Leaving nothing that was,
In silence.