from where comes light,
comes triumph bright as clay.
where heaven taps the forest floor,
maps heart to coil,
the spoils of love as brittle as the braille;
what species these a greater shade of shallow
dusting time with knuckles on the hallowed turf discreet;
no sense of this.
this stately home of the ragged man
where taunts the flowing fever through the vein;
past midnight to the veil,
stale smells of Oak from the chimes of naked toes,
as cold as Cleopatra in her Leopard skin of woes;
with iron lung as breathless as the walls of scant revenge,
sleeps deeper now delights of pleasured pain.
where hides the dark,
the seven miles of Sunday from the womb
haunts still the hours dead as hell upended;
from where came light,
no sense of life to honour such a deed;
past midnight to the veil,
still I crawl with haunted man on devils sticks;
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: September 10th, 2023 06:00
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15, L. B. Mek.
Online)
Comments3
DarkF thanks DarkM !
more than welcome DarkF;
You never fail to blow me away with your poetic heart and these wonderful words that come together like silk and for some reason I cannot help but feel so utterly humbled to be able to read your beautiful verses. Yet another poetry spectacular that made me just want to weep. 💖
as kind and thoughtful as always Teddy;
am also very humble reading your comments.
thank you.
'the spoils of love as brittle as the braille'
what imagery! brilliant dear Poet
(blinded, we reach out timidly
read with our fingertips
those storm winds in our path
love, has us petrified
yet, love has us learning braille
overnight, and so
we bravely grab tight and hope!)
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