And yet how gentle it seems to one raised in a landscape short of rain

The sky is dishwater brown with scrunched up clouds,
like a fallow heart
its light is lean almost discreet as it serves as witness to a world
doubly glazed
and dampened by the passing shadows,
we speak with fire upon our tongues letting go of things we keep
between our teeth
we spill blood in the dark locked behind the sun before dusk.

Describing the air is my soul halved
why must we meld our skin with scraps of things we can never become?
Come cut me like one does a beetroot
I work well with earthy flavours of celeriac and parsnip
the world as we know it is as moisture evaporated, the fibers
developing
a tight-knit, papyrus like surface that can be bleached or stained
with bitter fruit politics,
the mind is a powerful weapon with no remorse.

And not a sigh escapes my lips nor breath mingles with joy
I gaze no more upon golden trees with sun-kissed leaves
why must we hunger for control when so many lives are lost in the process?
Clinging to life is hope
I clutch my chest at the thought of dreams inside a coffin
my pen writes of destruction around the globe.

A prayer was mouthed last night in the fading sound and light
come rise with me
I think of innocents and die with despair growing inside
Poetry cannot be weak at this time
a hilted moon hangs overhead watching the landscape
as night soaked with determination walks me home
I have found everything that I need to make a difference within myself,
this August let us reach out for those who need us
the sky is dishwater brown with scrunched up clouds
but my heart is reluctant to give up.

 

 

Photo credits: Darren Crowley, Pinterest

Posted on Sunday Mini-Challenge @ Real Toads

& Posted on the Poetry Pantry @ Poets United