Polluted
tadpole
Cracked
and distilled
Jupiter’s
child upon
Rings
of clay
Cantankerous curmudgeonly
Broken, record scratches back
at
The muse.
All the while,
The repetition reminds us of
Gyrations affixed
Upon
sticks of lunar might be
Ribbons of deranged hypotheses
Of
forgiveness
Alone,
a light
To
match, the strike
Of
promiscuity away,
From
Ecclesiastic rage—where shadows
Meant
for the naïve, those wanderers unattended to,
Not
intended for, beacon the wayward star-struck, structures
Divulged
of both ether and fidelity
So
sad, at this, twilit, late stage of night
Where
pine promotes its eternal scents,
And
the odor of stagnancy,
Fragrances
prophetic foreshadow
Wafting
amongst unsympathetic heirs
…And
the sound, it sounds a little less familiar,
Than
how it ought to, as the timeline trails.
Another Tuesday, Another Open Link Night. I Love Tuesdays and if you enjoy poetry you should too. Head on over to D'Verse, check out some great poetry and share one of your own. The Pub opens at 3.
