a tadpole dance with he who cannot sing
among the reeds with plants of little care.
the twelve have gone
now shades of dissapointment stumble free;
noontide as strong as all who care to show
a longing for; a stain beneath the eye;
too late to gather prayer
now gods of wood march cheerfully ahead
to wars of unattended anecdotes
through a cloud of void more impodent than he;
too many hands of clay
crawling loveless; dead as only death himelf knows how;
where are they now?
the dead that once gave seed to pastures new.
one penny both their pendulum and pit;
meridian moods of constant praise be gone;
am happiest in the company of Plath.
share her comic accident of birth.
and tolerate the humour of a worm;
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 9th, 2024 04:37
- Comment from author about the poem:
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments2
What a wonderful piece as ever, your words astound my heart, your last stanza wow, such imagery. Kudos 🌹
thank you Teddy
how extraordinarily noir sir .. and impressive too I might add ..
cheers Neville.
most kind;
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