The Wailing Bleakness

The wind howls infernally cold in the night
its voice hollow and crooked spats
the cries of decomposing souls
lost in the maze of the past.

The living must take their chance, out of the
funnel, forcefully, or friable soil under their steps
will drag them into the pinning echo of yestertime's
horrors, when courage and patience slip.

Reduced to slaves once man risks to be no more
than troughs for hellspawn while acerbic defiance
makes us but eat crow and in illusive hurt lies only
the consecration of glorified redundancy.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ode

Image
Rise up towards the dawning red, never a hostage to that stolid fiend, the moor of despairs - Your flames burn those fermenting shadows, where an indolent spawn was birthed from tears of seasonal limbo. Walk tall through wintry haars and in the dead of the night, cast your wrath around and avail yourself a new Kingdom!
Read more

A slant of mirth

Image
From where the sun scorches the soil to gold dust, drawn by white horses over roiling cold waters, a silver needle plunged into rock hard bedding - as green blood was spilled, the morning star withdrew, the horizon blushed; dewed petals quenched their glumness with juvenile fire.  
Read more

White Blossom

Image
White blossom seated in a wreath of gnarled fingers; a prim lodestone harangued by the glaring moans which in haunting waves run off from parched thirsty mouths. Their predatory desire brewed from acrid pain skews her lofty aspirations and turns her ringing laughter to an idol of shame. To wistful humility devoted, she withers and bloats til all her unshed sweet tears are collected in a cuirass glossed with the colours of her hawkish suitors: burning ardour and the scorn of the immature.
Read more