The Bogman

entry picture

Wind scarred face, 

time pitted.

Sea salted clothes,

whipped and spat.

 

Gnarly dogged, 

bogman.

 

Live’s on a mountain 

with no summit,

a shadow climbing ever upward.

 

Caught once, 

in a mirror as he passed,

reflected upon, 

it later smashed.

 

His guns are in the earth,

with a dog that once was his,

and his true loves bones.

 

Clouds follow where he walks,

to closely shroud his path

and spit back tears with lightening forks

that quell deaths aftermath.

 

griefIsolationloneliness

◄ Legacy

Remote control killers and the wisdom of phallometry ►

Comments

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Wolfgar Miere

Sun 24th Jan 2016 12:35

Thank you Lea, much appreciated.

I'm trying to imagine what it is like to live with no sense of purpose or desire for life.

I just see a very grey landscape.

Also trying to conjure how one might distract oneself from a downward spiral.


Wolfie.

Lan

Sun 24th Jan 2016 11:27

Hi Wolfie, the weariness of this one is kind of achingly beautiful. My favourite bits are the 5th verse and 'spit back tears with lightening forks' - so so good x

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