Hey, did I hear you demand some more unoriginal poetry? Well, isn’t that fortunate! This is, again, from the backlog I have built up and, I swear, at some point soon I’ll be writing something new that ISN’T related to The Caitiff. In fact, I’ve got two more long pieces essentially planned out, a collection of shorter pieces, several more short stories and even know how my ‘London Pleasures’ inspired piece will go; if only this novel wasn’t sucking the life out of me with every deliberately dull metaphor and deadpan exclamation.
Anyway, here is Metaphor (cos’ any title at all is better than untitled).
Like the asinine Metaphor,
From a poet long-forgotten,
Or the rising simile of the newborn writer,
The wind howled,
And the raindrops fell like petals,
on unbroken skin
Borne on the same breeze that ravages the shore,
of grey isles far from an earthly conscience,
And, yet, the depth of a shadow from some narrative tense.
So, on we walked, this well-known stranger,
Each; fearing to break the silence of a generation,
To cast aside the education of youth and approaching mortality,
To twist our broken lips,
Into the grimace that passes for a smile;
Swing our feet as we swing our lives.
Our eyes, both hooded like a falcon’s world,
Remain untainted by the frivolity of expression,
And neither twitch,
To the left or the right,
For rage, that our curving arcs of sight,
Might interact, and force us into dialogue,
And then, to howl like the wind,
And our joyful tears to fall like petals,
Of a flower crumbling,
‘neath a poison-makers gaze,
And a poison-lover’s breath.