parasites and photographs.
there are no numbers in the letters
of December's fallen rain.
crouch and beg for long hoot of an Owl.
foot and mouth
each southern belle that webs and weaves discreet,
remembers me as a thickets flower spray.
what peers am I to bow to next?
there box. my home. my tea-leaves cherry-red
as tender as a cannon-ball
what county this I brave each winters chill?
each night my own. my pollen creeps, as sturdy as a horse.
this shape that shuts me in
cuts in half each paragraph I write,
it is the parasites I love;
no mothers kiss to wish a fond farewell.
what happened to her summers heart?
her summers dress that ploughed my every part?
somewhere at the end of orange rock
vengeance mine, my lord, my masters trick;
am void of all goodbyes and hallelujah cheer.
my roots of marrow. men in white.
picture me as nothing.
photograph my skull
my last words in a plain brown box.
me and you
one sleeping pill.
this is not the night to drown in;
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 7th, 2024 10:57
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments3
“This is not the night to drown in.” Man I KNOW these words, A wonderful poem my dear friend! 🌹👏
many thanks, as always Tristan.
and very much appreciated.
❤️
Thank you for another enjoyable read
and thank you for reading,
and your most kind comment.
You are very welcome
I see all the visions from underneath the rose garden in this, what a picture it is, dark as dark can get, yet powerful and gracious right to the end. Another wonderful piece of poetry. 🌹
thank you Teddy.
am always touched by such kind comments my friend.
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