And The Shepherd Layed Me Down Poem, by Melvin James, at My poetic side

and the shepherd layed me down, two brothers deep.

to live as lime, one moment in a pinch of brothels boil.

the half-inch coins of chastity on the frozen breast of mammal,

now the skin of leaves peels bottled hives to burrow deeper follows.

the blood of hair on the working hands of fetish meat on the stale bone,

to sleep, to die, cross-eyed to the grey church.

tied ransom to the red clay on the hours arm of noon,

as the mad moth decomposes on our meetings walls;

i now hear myself asleep in this wake of madness,

sleeping naked with my scalpel on the widowed ledge in a soft pouch;

comes loves design on pentogram through a wound of shapes,

how i walk a sirens bell to the flowing locks of a wagging tail.

before death takes only all could sleep away,

neither gift of child nor the shifting of the shapeless cry,

can i bear no grudge to the distance of the fingers crawl?

o teething child of sister in our chapels rest of birthstone,

a landscape raped and tortured, still the bad tree grows

his second month of april for the bride of may to flavour,

her dull blood in the whirpool of uncoscious mind,

yet still she stalks the typhoon in the callers eye;

slave now to ruptured moon in horse-drawn carriage,

with back as bare as pearl, still ripe as marriage,

and the shepherd layed me down, two brothers deep.

loves least expected crossed stitch on the cultivated eye.

with angry wings of the bad birds,

dye ribbons black for the child with auburn hair:

Comments +

aDarkerMind September 29th, 2021 11:12
as kind as always Teddy x

warm hugs back;
L. B. Mek October 5th, 2021 04:50
there's such a calmness, to the feel of this write
maybe anchored to resolve or hopelessness,
but that state of mind, to contemplate and consider, such wide spanning themes and issues, is a rare thing to come across,
we're all usually too stuck in our blinkered views, of life
to contemplate the 'landscape' view perspectives and glean the insight's, in the breadcrumbs of those thought's we choose to repress, than express...
' neither gift of child nor the shifting of the shapeless cry,
can i bear no grudge to the distance of the fingers crawl?
o teething child of sister in our chapels rest of birthstone,
a landscape raped and tortured, still the bad tree grows
his second month of april for the bride of may to flavour,
her dull blood in the whirpool of uncoscious mind,
yet still she stalks the typhoon in the callers eye;'..
(what a Talent!!!
thanks for sharing, and showcasing a little more of your range
dear masterful Poet)

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And The Shepherd Layed Me Down