Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Polemic in the Dark

‘Neath buckled concrete, splintered wood
And metal contortionist,
Entrenched under wrinkled, thin-skinned tarp,
Bones writhing in the feverish yellow lamplight.
Consumed with ache for empires lost.

Oh! White pillars,
Oh! Sweet river in the reeds.
For azure sky, untorn,
For golden orbs draped from the boughs,
For reckless love and glowing fingertips,
What I would forsake.

A jolt! – The sky splits electric.
The burning drops begin to fall
And sleep refuses the bleary eyes.
Hard broken ground in vicious segments
Ravages the aching legs and back
And the solitude stings.
The only companions the soulless,
They of pelt or scale.

And yet…
Summer in the Wasteland
When the sun briefly burns away the haze
And all around the bare threads of colour manifest
As grey mists recede…

Shadows of forgotten time, etched in landscape;
The light glints off the rusted chassis,
And the edifice of past life stands still,
And the tiny mosses grow amongst the skeleton trees.
There stands amongst the ruins – a blueprint.
The possibilities of beauty half-forgotten
And Hope.

And in the hard rain
‘Neath the slick and sodden tarp,
In the cloying dark and asphyxiate fear,
He thinks of yesterdays.
Before the rain
Before the war
And then he thinks: tomorrows.

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