Of clay and earth
Walk the soil street
My eyes closed,
Dreaming under a dense lid cloud,
Leafing through volumes of poetry: free
From all bullying. The rough boys,
Fit nowhere in my sleep,
Like unwanted pages on a bookshelf.
Under the moon’s onion shape
Am unaware of how
The marionettes dangle,
Expressionless and getting drunk,
Soon will seize a prize
Will take me hostage and waken my nerves;
Blenched, as one shaped into a
Crypted into a drear headstone.
No place it seemed
To laugh, kiss, seize a living,
The simulacrum of a breath too tough
For an ending;
To forbid a sullen ash heap fitting into
A thick foliage of hate.
Yet, despite my tears, my praying,
A rendering evil in a blink;
My mood like an unforbidden flower.
No longer claiming a feeling,
In my flesh the sling of arrows
Maltreated my body, outrageous blood,
Collapsing into a dwindle;
Glowering over me,
My mouth silted with flowers
In a shocking wise.
All my beauty, my wit, descant for a pyre.
Copyright © 04/01/18 lance sheridan®