broken by the stricken hour

broken by the stricken hour
folded into any number of nest eggs
retold and constantly reimbursed
immersed and standing
on one silly leg
in a wintry forest corroding
to the sound of allís end game
I drive my nails
deep into wallpapered you

stripped bare in public
ruptured like a ripe plum
broken like an arrow
stuck at the heart of my pale chest
wonderstruck by so many moons
lost in any could be chapter
I still carry the grey cloak
a druid once gave me
somewhere in The Middle Albion

revel you fool by the I letter
carry the unborn and the dead
far into the waste land
Iíve drivelled into the lost trade
Iím run out of town
for the sake
of cleansing the neighbourhood
from the no ceremonies
the ones that will not put down a bet

spin your wheel
you are so in need of a thief
to dare the rest of us
to empty our pockets
your kaftan hides your scars
infections and sores
that never heal
I go I and I will die
you too must go

(February 22 2018)




Poetry by Bob
Read 112 times
Written on 2018-02-22 at 21:46

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