Night comes to an Indian ghost town..

footsteps follow well-trodden paths through an inkwell of darkness

upward toward a hidden citadel

where apparitions of inhabitants welcome the returning..


Evening swans are still singing in the ruins down below

to defy the arrogant rooster whose sure his day will come;

and who fills his barn with domestic fare and

sleeps in a snare of silence, unknowing that his days are fully done.


◄ bombardment

attention deficit ►



Mon 2nd May 2016 21:44

Thanks, Martin and Rose, for reading and your comments. I'm pleased that you found the metaphors compelling.


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Martin Elder

Mon 2nd May 2016 20:44

An inkwell of darkness is fabulous. Nice poem

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Rose Casserley

Mon 2nd May 2016 18:57

"sleeps in a snare of silence" and I read this poem in a barnful of awe!

love it!



Mon 2nd May 2016 02:28

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