reflections of hell

Mounds of grass which weighs a nation,

And the candles lit at dinner time,

Feasting on the lanky bread.

 

Yet the fire goes down without a spark,

Governed by dead bodies,

And without light.

 

The reverend does see,

Just through the magnified image in wine,

A picture of god's divine.

 

The gallows wait in wonder,

And I sometimes question if the symbols become boring,

But the repeat misunderstood gesture of a hand outstretched.

 

They speak of val halor,

Or depth be thy damned,

And yet I slink in corners and grotesque the bell again.

 

I know the english language,

And its failings to spread the word too,

The greatest things about my life are that they all fall dead.

 

This thing,

In my pocket,

Which rang another thing is truthful.

 

Youthly and the forensics told my tale well,

I guess the bird that sips from water,

A bar and chain alike.

 

The thing we forget,

Often without much of a fathom,

Obfuscation of the minute hand.

 

To leisure and see more time this morning dew,

That seeps on the window and night,

I wish sometimes it would crawl deep beneath this heavy skin.

 

I sometimes think to the importance of a phrase,

And the way those grasp onto thin straws,

It's the doormat and concrete walls feel cold.

 

But besides that,

I guess there's no more to tell,

It's a simple thing which life reflects hell.

◄ not yet

after image sky ►

Comments

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Paul Sayer

Thu 16th Jul 2020 21:02

In the room behind the door
my shadow on the floor
creeps beneath the gap
to be free once more.

28 days of hell.

Your poem is a bloody masterpiece Alita.

Thank you
Po

Nicola Beckett

Thu 16th Jul 2020 13:49

I need to talk..............

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