WHERE THE BALLS OF HELL HANG LOW
You pull the strings the puppet moves
and takes you to the darkest path
where blood’s avenged by blood that’s spilt
and flows to where the dead lie still.
As ravens caw to moaning winds
with no melodic charm displayed
their throated song – a mournful hymn
and fear alone becomes the wraith,
In intervals of quietude
within the light of day revealed
the scabs of memory are plucked
when twilight interregnum rules.
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Author:
Michael Edwards (
Offline) - Published: April 16th, 2023 00:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments5
Very emotive words Michael, I do hope though that the twilight becomes a light in your life.
Love the artwork.
Andy
The times they are a changin.
Good write and pic M.
Graphic title. Wonderful words expressing the darkness before the light, when sorrow awaits the saving joy of life.
Enjoyed the artwork as well - saw a little gecko fella in it - maybe I hallucinate.
Sir🙏 The poem conveys a sense of despair and hopelessness, and it is not suitable for all audiences.
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