Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ormond Feb 2017
*Dull grey starlings come
Parade on gardens not won
Never too soon— gone
Ormond Nov 2014
Words, so many words,
****** of meaning—
Flailed at admirers,
So much pulp and filth
On the ****** page—
O how the vain can spill
Blood in an ocean drained
Of salt, in a vast vacuum
Of listeners who only
Aspire to sully themselves.

Is there meaning in followers,
Deaf, drinking in a whine?
Are the stars only gaudy dots
To spill on a black canvass?
The feigned, would be human
Stars fall in the cold, reigning
Drivel of wet, grey words,
That dry in the sand box desert.                      
Spare us the shallow veins,
The caved insights—
Of your shadows.

— The End —