Wednesday, 11 July 2012

sorrow sought a hanging basket and a sweetheart with a lisp

out into the peeling wind that licks away the skin,
Out into the fright white night I heard the summers wind,
cooling in of the embers of my burning broken skin,
out into cacophony that special kind of din,
after rain that comes like flash floods to wash away a single sin,
I can hear the wolves that move on pads in the howling whispered wind,
and the silent bark that moves not, stirs not, in the rustling of the wind,
I can see the fright white faces of the absent settled djinn,
a haunting from the hollow gods that have long ceased to begin,
the worry were of man and dog and logic never settled in,
it is absent in the near black of the yellow streets din,
religion in the overflow of gutters buckled in,
then the salvation that the locks click and the hall light carried in.

home to whisper welcomes,
in spaces where sound echoes back,
calmed by the low ceilings,
a sanctuary from the black.

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