In between
the echoing thumps
of my heart,
there is a yearning.
It sits quietly, this being murmuring gloomily.
Not an earthling, nor gremlin,
just a being of light is he.
He just wants to be free,
but encased in this prison,
a prism of gleaming light,
the bars mere millimetres apart
like hairs upon the beating heart
but he can't prise them
or break them nor escape,
so, he sits
until his light
dulls down
to shadowy fragments.
Where no light emits.
In this cell, the thrum
of that beating heart drum,
deafening already
numbed ears into oblivion.
Not a goblin, nor alien is he,
but a being of love.
Only the love has been sucked clean.
Now just an empty container,
no supply of hope, no light generator.
no hope of obtaining a refill.
Just the feint scent of a fresh kill.
As his own heart lays bleeding,
no longer beating.
Still.
Beneath the thud
of that hearts prison cell door
being slamed, locked for good.
You can make out the whimpered cries,
not an animal, nor a spectre trying to surprise,
not a weary spectator with droopy bag-lined eyes,
just a being of love.
He cannot wait here, he thinks,
sitting listening to the crumbling heart
as it crashes and clinks.
He can't become a hater.
He needs to feel the rush,
that surge of blood
ushering in a new age.
So, he locks up his rage,
and departs his prison cell cage.
Thanks for reading
No comments:
Post a Comment