The smirking silence

The eerily smirking silence

is broken, every few seconds

with the shrill sound. Metallic blade grating

against brickwork pathway,

The sound says that he is working.

Death hangs his head heavily in the air

but his work here is never done.

Always another someone.

Always another mothers

daughter or son. His shift goes on.

And on.

And on.

 

The lights change after dark,

A grimace from a smirk.

These are the hours where the beasts lurk.

Looking for those that are ripened by time,

or the weariness

of the universal pen running out of lines.

These are the hours of which we don’t talk,

they don’t sit on clocks; they don’t stand in wait.

They just pounce on you

when the human discerned hour is late.

But here

these times are never done,

those dreaded hours tick slowly on.

And on.

And on.

 

The clinging scent,

decay and pain.

Tastes like the gasses

from the grimmest

bowels of hell.

It grips the back of your throat

like a leech

sucking your life

from within its prison cells.

But these smells never fade,

They pervade the brain.

Invading; an insane army

that always marches on.

And on.

And on.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff

 
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0DFV8N7XH

 

Please buy a copy if you can

it would really help me
continue to do this.

Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle