To Ward off Devils Propagate over reaching hands, A populace burst A shrieked outcry, A torn image of the obscured ovary That could of been you or me A picture of love so lost and grainy That fellowship becomes an untouched, bitter tea Left to chill on the occasional table, Left to mould your beauty down to the bone That sits beneath the smile you wear for your public, For your profile so fine silhouetted in cob web. Holy orders, the marching drum Love is the smoking barrel of a gun I rattle about the empty calibre of your chambers. I drop and fall at the last, at the death knell Of 10pm lamp light shadows And a handcuff of lost perfume smells That linger like the body chalked Outline on your fine Persian carpet. Children clasp to song, A life raft bobbing on the blankness Of your future so caught in flare flash and drama On the aftermath of all and every Creation. Soft tunes, easy melodies Clap hands to ward off Devils, Lost in the harmonium discord Of the confined living. By Grant Tarbard
Posted on: Fri, 26 Jul 2013 07:27:37 +0000
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