Tuesday 11 March 2014

Left Overs

A writer's delusional wave of love
Gave birth to a page
And left her by the wayside
For destiny to write what it will on her
Blot or run dry as it may please.

The crisp white page
Now an aging patchy fragment
Still stares blankly at all who try to read her
Having resisted the lines of fate on her body
She lies bleached and starched
As she was born, she remains.

There Are Men and There Are Men

He is no illusionist
Only hardened muscle
And the salted water of our land
For even a twitch of cracked lips
He will bite back blood
Without a flicker of an eye

And there is the man who must hide
To hide the voices in his head
Draws curtains
Drives nails into crumbling walls
And music to block out the silence

Then is the man who rocks
Into the wood and iron of his chair
Sober and steady he gets up to leave
But his misery keeps rocking still

And among them all
Stands our homespun Olympus
Of the kathas, of Greek mythologies
Whose whisper hushes storms
Whose roar lights the world afire
And yet even his heart has broken
Leaving behind but another mortal man

These are men of the earth
Whose darkness can still the night air
When unleashed
Into them all I breathe life
And hope to live in a single breath
Of these great men
To flicker
And to die