Now few have ever understood, and few will ever understand, That there is no good or evil in the Grey Unliving Land. And in that fane no sun doth wane, no moon makes loons cry out insane, No lupines howl before wolfsbane, slain and ashen goes the man, Though supine kneeling in gray rain, drained and ashen goes a man, In the Grey Unliving Land. Yet often do the empty ones, with hollow hearts and harrowed hands, Bemoan the way that they are shunned in the Grey Unliving Land. And in that place there is no night, nor is there day with rays so bright, No nepenthe for the weary wight, lightless for the lonely man, So at length he decries his plight, sightless flies an only man, In the Grey Unliving Land. And sorrow lies behind each curtain, certain all is dead and bland, For on the morrow grass won’t grow in the Grey Unliving Land. And seas of sand are defeating dreams, and death the world is eating So it seems that hope is fleeting and hapless goes the stone-cold man, “Lo, the insects are retreating!” cried the listless nowhere man, In the Grey Unliving Land. Into buildings torn asunder, blundered the last one as he scanned, Seeking reprieve ‘neath every eave from the Grey Unliving Land. “Let me grieve…,” he whispered snapping, “trapped among these mortal trappings.” And he fell to lightly napping, when tapping roused the wary man, In poison winds her hair flapping, a woman stood before the man, In the Grey Unliving Land. (to be cont.)
Posted on: Fri, 03 Oct 2014 01:26:09 +0000
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