what distance this
between the do or die
the puppet strings of a global menopause?
the penny-black on a postcard from Brazil.
what it lacks no less a secret
than the phantom of this cabaret and mime.
once mine the wine of summer
through the channels of a throat.
goat herd as we alike
drifting green upon the weather's smitten brow.
all illusions bite bright yellow
through the centre of a fog.
we have fingers
we have palms,
but still we sway and swagger
like daggers treading water
each dressed as god
a lighter shade of pale.
again we delve into the lampshade of a lie!
it is tooth-and-nail
the frail deceased inside the stomach of a frog.
but still they burn
the wounds of winter drifting like a log.
these streets we walk are ours
my bitter friends
yet still we crawl as worms that cannot sing.
so brings me here to the summit
of an everlasting stem.
our silence now discreet.
meet me if only one last time
and take that final plunge.
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 6th, 2025 12:58
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments2
I really liked the complexion of this poem. The internal rhyme from time to time called out like a hidden harmony. The words call from the past some old songs others from movies. They whispered from the shadows. A most wonderful poem that left me with feelings that have no name. A fave
such a comment greatly appreciated Soren....
more that you will ever know.
Thank You my friend;
As usual you bring it with such style and elegance, I really cannot choose a line I love more, going back in time or going forward it's all irrelevant because we are in the now, love this thought, in which your poem gave me, we may all get to choose our paths but it doesn't mean we don't get stuck in the politics of life. 🌹
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.