The end of me

Wonder shining in my eyes
like I'm three years old again,
I will rise, like today,
Talk to children, sometimes.

The sky - the real sky - 
Shall shelter and storm the earth, still;
Black soil shall breed many satans, still.
Azure clouds, from which no rain falls, 
Shall mass on far-horizons, threateningly.

Large drops of rain shall fall, freezing into ice;
Angels shall lie about their wherabouts,
Clerics shall mumble incantations
To fat housekeepers.

Here, the blossom trees of stormy autumn shine
Into full, glassy pools. Grain tumbles from the mouths of faithless men,
Morning sings slumber again
Fish scatter circles of wet delight
Shimmering swans couple
A dog fox tracks its droppings.

In the park, dodging the broken syringes,
We play,on the broken swings, all day, 
The sky - the real sky - shelters and storms the earth still.
We sit and talk. She asks such questions:
"Who made God, dad?"

Answer please:.
Trees sway
Leaves tumble down
The town lights are on. 


◄ Loss has no end

Things fall apart ►


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John Marks

Sat 6th Mar 2021 22:43

Dear Keith. Never cynical, my friend, stoic maybe.

Faithful, I hope so; above all the beauty of innocence and the need to protect the innocent.

He who shall teach the child to doubt/ The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
William Blake

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keith jeffries

Sat 6th Mar 2021 22:22

A poem that merits several readings. Do these words indicate a certain futile or incomprehensible reflection on life? Cynicism? If so, then it makes even more sense.
John, thank you for this


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