Asylum

entry picture

Dead men drift here and there on restless tides,

washed as driftwood on a rain-decked shore.

Crows pick through the detritus, crass, craven,

and seated, the ministerial detachment surveys;

parleying with thin air, tapping stones with moccasin,

etching out the masterplan, no pretence to descend

until the paths are hollowed out, bordered, lifted

with coarse luminescence to a silent road,

in skies black above the jet engines’ scream:

‘Happy Holidays’.

A sign raised beneath, barely distinguished

beneath the decayed flesh, sand-washed bone.

A sun rises to catch the angry scrawls

in no language readable save the dead’s.

2015New Polemic

◄ Backwaters

'How We Can Change the Future Together' ►

Comments

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Martin Elder

Tue 5th Jan 2016 12:11

Aside from just being a dammed good poem I love the comparisons you make. I tried to write something similar myself a couple months back but it just didn't work. However this definitely does.

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