Sunday, 27 April 2014

Glass

Beyond the Pale moon trees,
A bloodied hand,
Clasps rotten ground,
Goes whirling past,
Poorly, seething, last;



Waking Up

So it walked, and spoke. It rose in the night but it wasn't alive. It wasn't sentient, only a dreadful mimic and, one that so expertly could craft such a bastardised conscience. Its lids, heavy with sleep I suppose, rose to meet my gaze. Gold, violet orbs set in a grey, porcelain face.


Tired

YOU SEEM SPENT ROTTEN, FRIEND,
YOU FIEND, EATEN ALL MY GOOD WILL AWAY,
I'D LOVE TO YELL, AND SCREAM, AND SHOUT,
MORE THAN I CAN SAY;

BUT NOT YET, FEAR NOT,
GIVE SHEER ANGER BACK,
TO YOU, THAT BLACK BILE,
I'LL DRINK,
AND DRINK IT WITH A RICTUS GRIN,
SEEMS A LITTLE MEAN,
YOU THINK?


Knight

The Righteous flew,
Through brook and brush,
Fell breath upon his heels,
A dracjon's wing against the sky,
Sought to make a meal;

And though his crime was right,
Though just a savior he,
Our knight still felt a twinge of guilt,
His heart's eye could clearly see;

An egg upon his saddle set,
Jostled in the fury chase,
Stolen from it's mother's clutch,
Heaven help this fool a knight,
Lest he lose this deadly race;

The trees began to bend and weave,
A deathly grasping dance,
And then the flames came hurtling by,
He'd barely stood a chance...


The Man In The Bush

His eyes peer out,
Warm chocolate gleam,
His mouth begins to curve,
Teeth like daggers.
 




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