To wonder whilst to wander
in the finer arts of ease,
caught a rippling of panic
in the overhanging trees.
Such an otherness, of an oddness;
a madness, if you please.
A tempest in the making
in the rustling of the leaves.
Asunder, cracked in thunder
and the darkness that it leaves,
a gathering of shadows
of ungodly strategies.
A form out of the darkness,
of a creature who believes
in blinding its believers
from whomever it deceives.
To blunder into slumber
and for who the death knell grieves
is that between each pealing
save for who the silence breathes.
Why rescued in such quietness
when another clang conceives,
the losing of another
from the other it retrieves?
To lumber through such plunder,
mid the tangling mess of wreathes
where conquests fall to pieces
at the changing of a breeze.
And marching on forever,
of a madness, if you please.
The rising of a tempest
in the rustling of the leaves.
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Offline) - Published: May 1st, 2025 12:30
- Category: Nature
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments3
A most moving write with great images and good rhyme.
Thank you very much, awfully kind of you, truly.
All the best,
Tony.
Wow I am amazed by the elegant construction here.The poem capture the rising of a tempest.Wonderful metaphors here.Enjoyable
Your response is very much appreciated and highly regarded.
Kind regards,
Tony.
Just so - storms everywhere, and now a very real one here.
And a mighty one at that. Thank you very much for dropping in, you're always welcome here.
Take care now,
Tony.
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