Lambs stood amongst thistle
as shadows dance in morning thirst.
Mist, whiplashed and grazed against
the rejected sun, placed pity upon everyone.
Empty haunts that lonely road,
dressed in spasms of mythical light.
And on the sharpened teeth of predators
only innocence holds to frostbite.
Was there room in their heart?
Blackened dreams that lock reverence
to streams that don’t belong
to prince, nor deprived.
Falling beneath the wheels
where love is crushed upon the tears
of monsters. We’re all monsters.
Luculent lullabies to sing against floodlights.
Piacular, I once thought a poem a day
kept madness locked in a cage-
behind lettered walls that curve
with ripe beauty and latency.
Between lament to better days – soul catcher
and drifted phrase – in cryptic haze
that dance around cupreous pray
and phased delinquency.
But lately, only the abyss seems to hold
the cage from tumbling, crashing,
to pother lit needing and colloquial synthesis,
rehearsed upon misreading.
Monsters, I dance in prosopagnosia!
The lamb swallowed by morning mist.
Only thought of as a by-product,
and catapulted through death, our tryst.
It is their kingdom!
Benthos that lingers at the bottom of thought;
the stream, the monster,
benefactor to each unchained heart,
where only mellifluous hallucinations taunt.
© Phen Weston, 2018