Little green army men

 

In ancient dreams,

vacant memories shocked to life.

I saw air force battles over flatline skies.

Across the fields

where so many lost hours

can still be found

buried in the long grass.

I saw fast blurs exploding past

into enemy fire. I saw lives floating by,

lost in the blink of an eye.

 

I saw the crash

of a ruined country in collapse.

In distant dreams I saw fires raging,

war playing outon the field

green screen,

where we would pretend to be

little green plastic army men.

Sticks for guns, trees protecting

from bullet wounds.

 

In those

war ravaged lullabies,

whispering my eyes to sleep,

I heard the end beginning in flame.

I saw missiles rain.

Apocalyptic pain

erupting through the

earth's ripped ruptured veins.

Gurgled screams

of a world breathing its last.

 

But I was able to open my eyes,

realising that this was a nightmare.

I swore to never lift a fist in rage,

never to hurt another if talking

or writing words on a page

could spare the pain.

I saw in my dreams,

I felt, my eyes stream

at the way too many

songs are left unsung,

when war comes to town.

 

In some places,

these dreams

are not figments of the mind.

They don't live inside.

You can't pinch yourself

to stop the red blood tide

washing over your nightmares.

So let words drown out the guns.

Let our songs sing louder than bombs.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

Follow this link for all of my books, 

 

videos and social media.

 

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and please grab a copy of my Audiobook edition

 

of "Poetic Outlaw" 

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Peace, Love & Poetry 

 

Kyle

 

Nuclear winter sighs

 

Shadows burnt

across my fading vision.

As daylight became a blinding sky,

a rush of air

gusting through

every cobweb thought.

Grim images

of all the lives I used to be.

My past memories

forming queues.

Prompts sharing slim pickings

those mushrooming cues.

Pictures I didn't set fire to

in the blaze of my mind.

Pictures I never paid

enough attention to.

Showing me signs

of what was

about to blow through.

 

Walk the snowfall ash

in nuclear winter sighs

on these cold nuclear winter nights.

White speckles over

bloodstained sky.

A blizzard of all

that ever came to pass.

Heart collapsed,

atomic blast destroyed everything

in its path,

and I walked

on smouldering soles.

Feeling the turn of the world

in every staggered footfall.

All around

the buildings still burn.

Lost their souls. In the smoky ruins

of a sky now forever overcast.

 

This aftermath,

1 and 1 never add up.

The corruption divides

before multiplying the pain

of this nuclear rain.

Word's fallout

destroying everything.

I walk the dust fall pathways

ears ringing from the stinging words

that still sing their bomb blast

songs of misery.

 

Reminders blow through

the atomic winds in echoes.

Cursed chants of hatred,

scattered scraps

of yesterday

painted blood red,

before the bombs

reigned over us.

Our world blown

to kingdom come,

thoughts surplus to requirements,

thrones no longer fit for purpose.

Now just toxic radioactive scum.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

Follow this link for all of my books, 

 

videos and social media.

 

https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff 

 

and please grab a copy of my Audiobook edition

 

of "Poetic Outlaw" 

https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/B0D4VZZ8QG

 

Every click, book purchase, like & share 

 

really helps me to keep doing what I love.

 

 

Peace, Love & Poetry 

 

Kyle

 

Clock chimes thirteen

 

 

Sometimes the day

doesn't end when

those idle hands

reach the promised land.

When they lock

their grasp tightly together

in a coupled nightly joining.

A confluence of timing

gathering to praise the moon,

before they part again.

Sometimes they are

praising too soon.

and time carries on,

in a peculiar pattern.

 

Sometimes the clock chimes 13 times.

The veil between worlds faintly shines,

splitting the universe in two.

Those haunted few pouring through

so, they can stagger these streets

on their ill-fitting borrowed feet.

It clicks with a creak, not a tick so to speak,

more like the lid of a coffin being tweaked.

 

The bells don't ring,

they chime with laughter.

Evil and menacing.

The pendulum doesn't swing,

it slices into the segmented hours,

cutting them into bite-sized chunks

hunks of meat, much easier to devour. 

The clock perseveres,

carries on, to welcome over the evil ones.

It doesn't tick or chime,the sound more severe,

it flitters across the grimacing face, 

severing the threads one by one, 

until time is erased and it stands alone,

with just its own sands of time for company

echoing a dull ringing in the ears perpetually.

Minutes can be hours,

seconds can last for eternity

Moments become mountains,

or untimely cosmic monstrosities.

 

The clock chimes 11, 12,

and we delve into the nighttime spell,

expecting silence to now dwell,

but that sound rings again. 13.

Only this time it screams in pain,

An echo from somewhere unseen

far away in the undercurrent

of an animal growl, it howls like wolves

asking the moon for guidance.

We could go into hiding.

Probably should,

because in this mysterious time

there is no good, just the slow rumble

of the clock spinning.

The seconds and minutes tumble

Whilst the hands stay

exactly where they are,

air thinning and hollow,

and the hours never seen to follow.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

Follow this link for all of my books, 

 

videos and social media.

 

https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff 

 

and please grab a copy of my Audiobook edition

 

of "Poetic Outlaw" 

https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/B0D4VZZ8QG

 

Every click, book purchase, like & share 

 

really helps me to keep doing what I love.

 

 

Peace, Love & Poetry 

 

Kyle