"discoloured" poems
It seemed the space between us became torn and
Profoundly distanced....................
Jamming bony knuckles and spread eagled fingers,
Lying their mapped out journey.....direction on point patrol....
Adorned by silver decoration, delighting in their skinned habitat
Shafted, deceit punching the recipient of the poison digits
Prodding and pushing their intent....dare you contradict
The intended carved out dose of punishment, Risk and
Safety......not yours and never would be; stooped
Down under the assailing bony palmed attachements
That delivered penetrating power, cupped around
Your arm til it became discoloured, pressure points
Backed you into a corner, up against the grain of the
Brick wall, cold and damp, the odour reaching
And scolding your nostrils with its stale internal vows
Refuse, stretching and protruding its foul remnents
An earlier life, when you were not under threat fades
Your very existance in jeopardy, your eyes pleaded for
Normality, willing someone to hear your silence, grip you
Tightly, not with malice, but with bravery and valour
Right now you need that shining knight, that white
Horse galloping down the blind alleyway, yet you
Know that won't happen for you're already sinking
To the floor, the blow comes sharp and stings, warmth
Exudes and trickles a path downwards, leaving your
Body, finding the cold concrete beneath you, travelling
Outwards................
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
Red balloons litter the floor,
Out numbering the pure ones before,
What once was white now
Discoloured
Violated
Shrouded
Float from view
Each a moment of life
As the balloons once white
Now no more,
For all is stained red
Crimson,
Droplets,
Dried
Upon white like a tear,
It slides down marking
Before greeting the floor,
Expelled air, ruptured by the
Violence,
Anger,
Death
Still lingers, an after image
Of the life that was here before,
Red balloons float leaving their imprint
Splatter effect upon floor & wall
Cold eyes stare seeing both
White
&
Red
Balloons
Clinging around this fallen life,
Where white once was now all
That floats is the stench of death
Red balloons huddle around,
Each carrying a moment with them
When life became death &
White was scarred by crimson,
Life is static, still, for death now floats above the floor
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Too far away, oh love, I know,
To save me from this haunted road,
Whose lofty roses break and blow
On a night-sky bent with a load
Of lights: each solitary rose,
Each arc-lamp golden does expose
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows
Night blenched with a thousand snows.
Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,
White lilac; shows discoloured night
Dripping with all the golden lees
Laburnum gives back to light.
And shows the red of hawthorn set
On high to the purple heaven of night,
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,
Blood shed in the noiseless fight.
Of life for love and love for life,
Of hunger for a little food,
Of kissing, lost for want of a wife
Long ago, long ago wooed.
. . . . . .
Too far away you are, my love,
To steady my brain in this phantom show
That passes the nightly road above
And returns again below.
The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees
Has poised on each of its ledges
An ***** small girl looking down at me;
White-night-gowned little chits I see,
And they peep at me over the edges
Of the leaves as though they would leap, should I call
Them down to my arms;
"But, child, you're too small for me, too small
Your little charms."
White little sheaves of night-gowned maids,
Some other will thresh you out!
And I see leaning from the shades
A lilac like a lady there, who braids
Her white mantilla about
Her face, and forward leans to catch the sight
Of a man's face,
Gracefully sighing through the white
Flowery mantilla of lace.
And another lilac in purple veiled
Discreetly, all recklessly calls
In a low, shocking perfume, to know who has hailed
Her forth from the night: my strength has failed
In her voice, my weak heart falls:
Oh, and see the laburnum shimmering
Her draperies down,
As if she would slip the gold, and glimmering
White, stand naked of gown.
. . . . . .
The pageant of flowery trees above
The street pale-passionate goes,
And back again down the pavement, Love
In a lesser pageant flows.
Two and two are the folk that walk,
They pass in a half embrace
Of linked bodies, and they talk
With dark face leaning to face.
Come then, my love, come as you will
Along this haunted road,
Be whom you will, my darling, I shall
Keep with you the troth I trowed.
4.2k
Like a greedy vulture, I pecked at my skin
What is there to accept?
Is it the discoloured patches where plump red blush had settled before?
Rosy and full of life, I will mourn for my past self.
Is it the falling strings of hair giving up on embracing my tired neck?
A backbone that has defied its own purpose.
In a world of exchange and sharing
Nature has found a place in me
My soul reconciles with the desire to bloom
But my body is dwelling in its ashy winter days
Between the night and day
Find me halfway deciding where to go,
It will either be aspiring to be the sun
or waiting for the end to die with the moon.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Crouching in the rotted dust,
Covers covet the light;
Dull, discoloured dust jackets
And wrinkled leather hides
Of the books that moulder and muse,
Ruminate and render themselves
To dust, as everything must,
Upon long-forgotten shelves.
Becomes the perfect breeding ground
For shadows, for sickness, for sin;
The ladies are seen to turn away
With tarnished faces and tattered gowns,
While the hero remains anonymous,
A nobody about the town.
A plot studded with lacunas
And paralysed on page one,
Words grown together in intimate embraces
Never to be undone.
Thin volumes of poetry
Shiver with the poison of years,
As passions freeze and snow falls in May –
The daffodils die a beautiful death,
The clouds are mottled and grey.
A teardrop hits the page.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
The glint of a gold coin discarded and under a hedge.
The unmistakeable ***** and ****** of the shrapnel congregating at the bottom of my pocket.
I can find any combination of currency in a lovely jingle jangle of metallic discs.
The cashier slips me a note and some change on top which spills onto the counter.
A 10 pence piece tries an audacious spinning escape morphing into a ball.
The change rattles again as it all settles at the bottom of my pocket after dropping in the new recruits.
I slide the discoloured crinkled creased five pound note into my leather wallet nicely nestling next to a ten pound note.
I love the smell of ***** money!
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:14 AM UTC
Everything is happening so quickly
so many negatives surpassing the
insignificant glimpse of positives
that never seem to suffice,
there’s always this light at the
end of the tunnel that everyone
speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness;
a journey down this long tunnel brings
no illumination but only a continuance
of nihility, the damp walls
seem to bring the chill humidity
closer and closer with each step,
the droplets echo the narrowing,
flickering lights dissipate at passing,
the gag sparking stench of sewage
and ***** make the voyage to
light even more unbearable than the
previous hesitant inching towards
the so called spoken about bearability of life,
sudden scintillations of light bring sight
of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed,
discoloured of crimson roadkill,
I open the first door and see a woman
tied and bound, gag in throat,
beads of sweat turning the white gag
to watered milk,
the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin
and blood dredged by her own fingertips,
to front is a tray of what seems like
torture tools
*intrigued, I slam the door
and avoid a kiss
from Judas*
The next door, I open and see a man
sitting facing the corner,
wrapped in a flickering fan,
staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes,
to see arms of cuts and gashes,
with a tray next to him
comprised of razors and knives
he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives,
tempted to grab the tool and corrode self,
with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door
and avoid
Finally the third door
eagerly stares to
me with anticipation boiling veins,
I press my ear to foreshadow,
I hear a cries; a man of hatred
and a woman of pain
I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey
I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me,
Within the third door; walls
with peepholes to confirm the calls
on the left I see the sliding knife
over-panting roadmaps of russet to
the neck of the bound woman,
the screams are deafening,
they present a vibration,
stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation,
prompting the admiration
to view the second door,
I see myself, in door 2
tremors and convulsions
seeing blood expel every vein
as the verticals
halt oxygen to the brain
Departure brings me
to the abysmal realm of society
where the burden of negativity
proves to provide no proof towards what
differs between the endless, narrow
tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow
and psychosis driven visions and the
narrow pathed voyage of life.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
It’s the hour before traffic,
around that time when the paperboys
sniff, all of them rubbing their noses on sleeves.
The smog is fowl,
a stray dog howls
orange explosions of bitter pain
through which the sun battles to make a comeback.
Amber lights
flash
right of way
for
whoever’s driving home from the pub,
whoever’s daft enough to face the day
that way.
The last ********** packs her bag,
stubs out her ***
and zips her **** shut,
‘A fat cow like me can only wait for so long.’
Soon the sky is Usual Blue,
discoloured by security swipes,
fake handshakes,
and Columbia’s finest
coffee-stained
coffee shop waiters
who sell the finest sugar cube coke
to those hardworking folk
who keep our nation ticking,
and tocking –
the digital clock,
my rooster with the fraudulent eyes,
tells me it’s time to let the snooze button go.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 3:13 AM UTC
Repressed energies
Planting sickly seeds
Biting the hand that feeds
Doing disgusting deeds
Grabbing the fist that leads
Sweating discoloured beads
All to the rhythm of the marching team
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
The wind tickles my moustache
cigarette tips its ash
must remember to get that waxed
or relationship could be axed
My hair is looking grey
better buy that dye today
my nails look discoloured
but couldn’t be bothered
Still got the voucher for the gym
I’ll put that in a card for him
Son’s birthday coming up, 25
open lines of communication, strive
Today’s feeling is melancholy
haven’t got the energy to be jolly
ah, here’s the bus
paste on smile, face life thus
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
I always thought I had green eyes,
They are, in fact, blue.
Envy has discoloured them
and obscured my true view.
Having now matured;
trauma, aging, greying (audible gasp),
healing is happening
in ways not anticipated,
nor valued at first.
But now, I am embracing
my true blue eyes to see anew.
Oct 13, 2024
Oct 13, 2024 at 4:46 PM UTC
so many faces, so many faces
disfigured lives in hushed tones of living
find they have no choice
and with eyes discoloured
yet not blind destroy the flowers that bloom
they recognise the work of the infernal serpent
in Miltonian affirmation of a stranger
and a more deadly disfigurement
than that which like sun baked clay
bears its cracks in the haunting of lives
with a medieval gargoylian curse
to becomes the orphans
of nothing, except everything
and ask how does this equate
with so many faces
faces that are struggling for
the paradise to be regained
for the infernal serpent to be slain
so many faces, so many faces
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
I am a paling star to be washed out
In the dazzling brightness of the arriving dawn
A calendar that ran out of time
A broken guitar with strings loose
I will soon exit out of life
Like a man hardly anyone knew existed
And only very few would miss
As I look back to the prime days
I feel years have flown away in a flurry
Like scraps of paper whirling in the gale
A dense fog crawls up into my eyes
The verdant vistas and smiling faces
Have discoloured like weather worn paintings
The violet shadows of red rocks
Form a dark cave within me
Nothing subsists in the dells n’ hollows
Of my memory
I wilt under Age’s burning breath
And wither under its deadly blight
Now I drift... a rudderless vessel
Through unknown waters
Waiting at the Departure Lounge
I now have only one prayer;
Don’t let me scorn and disdain the young
Whose sky is wider and dreams endless
Who walk with nimble feet and sure steps
To conquer the world that has left me a scrap!
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 8:56 AM UTC
In this room where I grew up
calves’ roars creep in the open window.
Day dream on the bed,
mirror reflects in Autumn:
the time my notebook fills,
floods like the land.
As I check my email from my phone,
two daddy long legs mate
on the discoloured floorboards–
no business of mine
enter my password–
no business of theirs.
The dog suddenly barks, the front door opens,
two old babes shuffle in to visit Gran
in the same spot she’s been parked
for the last two years,
watching the seasons change
through the kitchen’s lace scene.
All as deaf as the dead; simultaneous
yet different conversations–
I interpret and translate. In unison
they sing my praises:
He’s good boy, oh yes a good boy indeed–
like I was the dog.
Outside Dad chops timber,
I make tea for three.
Cut some cake Gran worries.
What will they think?
Barn brack with ring,
memories of Halloween
play in my head,
welcomed like the moon, always.
Evening: after I have the sheep counted,
I watch the stag in the next field–
they rut this time of year,
call for a mate.
Tomorrow is Friday,
the first of the month.
The priest will call to the sick and elderly–
I will hear the dog announce
his red Toyota Starlett
over the fields.
Thank God Gran doesn’t know. I
can do without that worry
anytime of year.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 2:22 PM UTC
All I had done, all I could have
But with a touch,
A single cut,
The blade was old, black as night
It was a paper cut, stung like hell
But that's how I let it in,
My world changed that day,
I awoke,
Where once there was blood
But a vein of black where but a scar revealed
My finger numb,
Cold to the touch,
And everyday I awoke the coldness spread
Like a vine it crept up veins black
Poison ivy creeping,
Awoken in the night my hand upon my throat
Squeezing,
Compressing,
Restriction,
Of breath, I awoke was it a dream
I looked upon myself,
The mirror showed me The horror of the night,
A hand print, bruised flesh was seen
The veins of black had spread,
Upon my body
Feet,
Legs,
Torso,
Pink flesh now discoloured,
Black veins protruded
I shivered, I was cold to the touch,
I was being consumed from within
The darkness crept upon my throat
A voice not mine spoke,
"Blade of darkness"
"Hell sealed within"
"Cut upon flesh"
"To release"
"The evil within"
"What was warm"
"Be cold to the touch"
"Death will follow"
"Once darkness spoke from within"
Fear and terror gripped my mind
As this body know no longer mine,
I had moments before I was gone,
Blacking out I awoke,
What once was me know spoke
Your flesh is mine,
Released to sin, this is my suit
To wear, while you watch within
You are dead,
Spirit trapped,
I will live your life,
While you soul forever rots within.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Dearest wildflower grinning
With powdered crooked teeth
And hair incandescent and strange
I write you this as though it were my last.
Follow me into the Holocene
And the night ghosts will not wither your grinning soul
Your blue eyes dance away
Your iris discoloured and grey
Never has indigo seemed so violent
And Auburn hair seem so opaque
And strong tongues seemed so silent.
During Berlin nights
And blanched London days
I'm forever burning in your flames.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
When the sun slumbered beyond the falling
horizon, a deranged mentor of those it wondered
over below. False expressions were given in tribute
to that which watched with acidic smiles of their
persecution beneath its gaze.
In its fading they were collected in truest outline.
Negatives of perceived imaginings, pigmentation
descended from form like coloured petals
turning to dust. They were the abattoirs of this
now discoloured imaginings.
Sweetened voices of lullabies were replaced by
disorientated shrills, that reverberated within
the halls, they lumbered in there contorted abodes.
Nesting into corners of despair that blossomed on
them with hues of isolation.
Feasting on warm carcasses, weeping with
trepidation at this momentary freedom they felt.
There home of tattered souls that were cleaved
from prey, no peace in death. They hang at
the windows clinging to lost hope.
Time was a nine tailed mistress that whipped them
into the binding once more. For the arising was upon
them, they were lacerated within colour once more.
All that was flaked away and became as it was.
Smiles on there faces paying tribute to that above.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
It oozed from my nails like blood
But darker, no pain, it fell upon the floor
It was warm around my toes
"It was like a puddle walked after a storm"
But then then
Lacerations,
Irritation,
Convulsions
As what once bleed from my nails
Now pierced my flesh,
My body trembled,
As I hit the floor,
"Shaking uncontrollably"
It crept under my skin
Burning upon every nerve, but then
Pierced,
Cracked,
Perforated
From under the skin,
I touched the first,
"I screamed in plentiful agony"
As if a raw Nerve had been openly touched,
It was like poison ivy, my skin
Discoloured veins of
Red,
Blue,
Black
Slowly crept over the open wounds,
It had moved to my trunk,
***** of black spewed forth"**
As it entwined,
Like clawed fingers
Lacerating my internal organs,
I moved back,
"Crawled upon the floor"
The now solid nerves
Scrapped, scratching the wooden boards,
It was a futile act, as if I could escape
That which was under my skin,
My arms were perforated
Upon my throat, veins crept
As it knew that if
Pierced,
Bleed,
Breath
No more would be had,
But each was as if embers of flame
Inhaled, exhaled with each painful breath,
It crawled underneath flesh, agony
Not letting me go,
I was conscious
"Even though I preyed to pass out"
It clawed
Slowly,
Intentionally,
At each eye, like a thousand paper cuts
My eyes cried tears of black,
As I was shown the darkness within
That which had taken form externally, I was
Corrupted,
Polluted,
Distorted
Darkness that had crept beneath my skin,
And with that I exhaled,
"Black feathers spewed forth"
Cutting at my throat
As I ejected the darkness
These black feathers not hitting the floor
Instead just floating around,
"As I expelled once more"
Till one feather of white exited
With each touch
Black became white,
Ever brighter the room became,
Like a blanket covering I slept
"I awoke"
"Under white sheets"
"Was this but a dream, a nightmare"
"I coughed and exhaled"
"A tiny black feather exited"
Then I knew that darkness is always inside,
But it can grow upon the soul,
Cutting into the white,
Like a vine corrupting upon the flesh
Good,
Light,
&
Bad
Darkness,
Are things of life
But we must never let the
Darkness blot out the light and take control of our life.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
There is that failure of communication,
At least of that soft civilized kind, the
Type that doesn’t involve blackened eyes
And broken teeth and bruises like fallen
Apples. She tries to hide her face behind
Her scarf, pulls up the collar of her coat
To conceal the bruises to her throat, pulls
The sleeves down to cover up discoloured
Arms and long skirts to mask the beaten
Thighs from her neighbours prying eyes.
He is full of jackshit and self-pity and
Mopes and sulks and blames her for the
Messy house, the kids crying, the bills high,
His fists flying. Unconditional love is the
Only real love, her mother said, lecturing
To her on her wedding eve, pushing the
Rosary beads between fingers and thumb.
Nights he doesn’t come home are best, she
Can sleep and unwind and rest. Even the kids
Can feel the peaceful air when he isn’t there.
His apologises are fake notes, they bring her
Nothing, reveal nothing, cast false hopes like
Wasted seeds, open up the pretending dreams
That life is always better than it is or seems.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Glaciers withered within me, evaporating
into clouds of despair. I collect within a dispersal
of all that was cloudless, but now I'm slowly
reseeding within a squall of sorrows,
withered emotions now on the cusp
of what is darkening the skies of my fortitude.
But they say every cloud has that glimmer of hope,
a silver lining of reflection within.
That discoloured allure faded before it began.
And now all that I'm consumed by,
is shades of ashen contemplations.
Static discharges of emotions collide in
turbulent clashes, as words shatter
pine trees of fortitudes, splintering hearts.
Echoing from within,
glancing the air in discord.
Precipitation finally collapsing below.
After every storm there is a moment clarity,
where tears fell and emotions disfigured
another's calm ground.
Remember that when the clouds are gone
that the illumination of emotions will
shine though, and once again there is calm.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
People are too concerned
with self, said Father Higgs.
His aged face as if hewn from
Rock, sat before you on broad
shoulders, the lips labouring
with the words. Too much
worried how self will feel,
how self will benefit. He
hunched forward, his large
eyes moving over you like
tired slugs. The symbol of
the cross, he said with a
movement of his head, is to
cut through the I, the sign
of the self. You noticed one
high brow, grey, larger than
the other, hair in nose like
insects in hiding. He breathed
out deeply. Self denial is
the essence of the message
of Christ, he said, a left
inclination of his head, his
teeth (not his own) large
and discoloured. You wanted
to ask questions, but he raised
a hand. The word I is stated
too often in conversations,
he said, or self too much
brought in as myself or herself
or himself or such as may be
used in talk. You understood
this was his way of lecturing.
His black monastic habit was
stained about the neck by food
or dribble or dried up phlegm.
We ought to be concerned with
others, he stated, wheezing, face
reddening, eyes enlarging. Where
is my inhaler? he wheezed, I really
must be off, this smoker’s cough,
my poor old lungs, must get myself
a stronger inhaler and he was off,
out of the common room he had
caught you in some hour back.
All you saw was his hand and inhaler
and departing monastic habit of black.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
Dearest wildflower grinning
With powdered crooked teeth
And hair incandescent and strange
I write you this as though it were my last.
Follow me into the Holocene
And the night ghosts will not wither your grinning soul
Your blue eyes dance away
Your iris discoloured and grey
Never has indigo seemed so violent
And Auburn hair seem so opaque
And strong tongues seemed so silent.
During Berlin nights
And blanched London days
I'm forever burning in your flames.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
And so they played they were
Innocent,
But the words in wood
They spoke In black mud
"Wood was"
"Wood is"
"Wood will end"
"Wood will become"
"What had began"
Fear runs fast in young eyes,
As to a father they did run
"Calm down little ones"
And in to woods he took
An instrument of destruction,
So upon wood he did
Hack,
Carve,
Splinter
Pieces now layed upon the ground,
A splinter did puncture
His finger that bleed upon
Black mudded ground,
And he dug at hated mud
For words to be seen,
"A splinter"
!Will seal the fate"
"And too wood will consume"
He looked upon the words
And glancing blows,
Now all was splintered
Covered in black mud,
Days had past
Night was calling,
He awoke startled, a burning
Sensation,
Looking where the splinter
Had punctured, his
Finger unable to move,
Then as the nights did pass
More fingers fell to the numbness
Unable to move,
He awoke
Three nights past,
His hand discoloured
And a elbow locked, so much pain
The fingers now spread out angles were
Distorted,
Altered,
Contaminated,
As the stiffness spread
Arm and hand now
locked in this figure, not natural,
His skin did wrinkle
Not a colour that Is meant to be,
He though he would breath in his last
Outside he ran,
Bare feet did sprint, then for
"No reason"
His feet did stop
Pain seared through his
Appendages
He looked down in horror
Toes rooted to the ground
He reached up
"God what have you done"
And so the skin consumed wrinkled
Like bark his skin did
Manifest
Once only wrinkled
But more like bark from a tree
Wood was destroyed,
It warned in the wood
"Disrespect nature"
"And wood you become"
There is a new tree in the garden
The Mother looks upon this new
Leaved tree
"It looks like your dads face"
"Only just"
The child says,
There father was never seen
But he had paid the heavy price
For the words foretold,
That wood will consume,
Sap leaks from the tree
Slowly it fell for many months to come
Always seeing but unable to move,
His family sheltered under the tree in
Summers,
Winter,
Rain,
They always kept dry
Under the tree,
And every so often,
A branch would move, to brush up
To be close to his family.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC