4-12-12.

...


‘Twas ever thus. A cup beside the
drunken bed while the child who
cannot cry remains unfed, remains
unclean, uncleansed of sin, betrayed
by your ugliness, rotting from within.

‘Twas ever thus. You say it again.
The excuse is your constant refrain,
your constant limp which you are
proud to show, you lean against the
crutch, you cannot let go.

And her heart is broken, I’ve watched
her fall. The bells will chime, the bells
will call. Is there some god who holds
our fate, grinds you into dust, bars the
gate, fills us with fear, fear and hate?

There are no gods I’ll tell you now,
there are no prayers, no hymns, no
vows, no mystery to unfold at the
edge of death, there is only blood
and tears, tears, and your last breath.

 

 

 

.......

◄ Brausebad.

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Comments

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 30th Jul 2014 10:42

The conclusion is interesting 'there are no gods' when, in the first stanza, you use the strong expression 'uncleansed of sin' as though the god-idea was very strong in your psyche.

Did you do anything for 12-12-12?

It is an interesting structure, very. Is the 'limp' and 'hop' in the metre scan deliberate? To emphasise your point?

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Jeff Dawson

Sun 9th Dec 2012 21:46

Great writing, powerful stuff and well put together.

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Jade

Fri 7th Dec 2012 16:11

I really liked this. The internal rhymes draw you in. It seems to be quite fast-paced as well. Nice.

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Anthony Emmerson

Thu 6th Dec 2012 12:15

Ouch! Pure Arabica poetry - dark and bitter.

Regards,
A.E.

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