i feel your clammy tendrils
slip-sliding round my throat
and the ancient killer lizard
lurking neath this human form
burns ablaze with murder
savage bloody murder
hanging on that perfect moment
to strike and slay....or perish !
there are no words or treaties
to resolve this timeless conflict
if it isn't thee that bites the dust
then it's but for me to die
i know what it is you lust for
you've dwelt so very long there
in the haunt of the living dead
i smell it oozing from your pores
i know without a doubt that
you would ice me on the spot
if you could succeed without
the threat of being caught
i suspect there once was
a living soul breathing neath
that dry and brittle shell
but at some crucial point
you must have made
your final fatal choice
and pay the going price
to the prince of thieves
it's quite the deal you have
you even get to see daylight
but it's no secret to these eyes
you're devoted to the darkness
like all who hail
from the halls of hell
it's mortal creature's
life-blood that buys
you yet another night
the hunt is an eternal one
unless you fail to score
then....
it's nought but crumbling
into barren ash and dust
and what it is you are
shall be here never more
glad you are still writing Wil.
ReplyDeleteyou are still in my heart.
a little poem of my own from re-living a trauma for me, which i cannot post on my own blog, 'cause my mother could read it:
sitting on the burner
my mother’s rose-coloured
plate broke like I did.
we couldn’t take the heat
but both my mother’s
last salvation
shame
fills my pores
permeates my being
as she stifles me
amid her own.
the why is not the point
it is the feeling of being stifled
that I forgot to feel.
“no, I am not angry at you
but let’s not talk about it
it’s just easier that way”
becomes a violent statement
in this hindsight
and the moment that my life
has brought me to, here
now
dissecting these layers
of childhood skin
there is the feeling of death in the house
the smell of buried
rotting soul
has been around so long
you don’t even smell it
any more.
I am the only reason
my mother exists
for me she is
going through the motions
of living.
there is a loneliness that comes
with this realization
an isolation so vast
and eery it is as if
all other humans have
migrated yet I
remain, my mother
turning to sand and
blowing away beside me
blending, becoming a part
of the endless miles
of dust we have come from.
I am saddened as if
she has already died.
the wind blows so hard
I can barely stand
to open my eyes
I cock my one eye open
it isn’t me
or my deer heart
she means to snuff
it never was.
the broken plate is her
broken heart
and not even I
can give her hope
or courage, faith,
to put it back together again
and beat here
beside me, with mine.
where are you
who is here with me
it is as horrible
and shocking as a corpse
in my regress-ed state.
I have blamed myself
took it upon myself
to make her life worthwhile.
I was the star in her sky
and I have fallen.
the plate broke.
we couldn’t take the heat.
you didn’t rescue me
and I mourn I cannot
rescue you
but here we are
here
now.
PS. It is called 'the rose-coloured plate'
ReplyDelete