Pale Brindle Sky

There is a witch under a golden anthill beneath a pale, brindle sky
Turning a spindle wrought of ancient ways
Hidden well within like The BoOk of Days,
Holding a switching wreath beholden she will bequeath a bale wonder why .

The tribes beyond the fiery river gulch huddle in their wretched rags of fear
Their scribes demanding precious fees too dear to pay, like Death
Comes oftener to reap the tolls
Washing over the hills in rolls
Of desiccated, delicate grey
Alighting like a bird of prey .

There is a King inside the forms which dance and twitch
Abnormal norms fanning fires with the empty caverns of their souls
Close to nothing to hide the storms of chance may pitch
All these futile tribes away, like so much chaff the whirlwind mocks
As they blindly play at number games wearing rainbow socks .

Unwinding broken clocks while the witch she knits at thorny chains
Swilling deserts while the teeter totter rocks and burns their eyes
Parching throats where wisdom sinks their boats under vermilion skies
Finding unspoken thoughts the same as drowning in the wool too thick to dye
There is a witch beneath a golden anthill under a pale, brindle sky . . .



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 539 times
Written on 2016-01-30 at 22:43

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