He stands
upon that
steel mountain top.
Hat in hands,
guitar slouching tiredly
against pipework trees.
Looking down
at the flames and misery.
He sighs. He knows.
He sees.
Like the phoenix that rose,
whilst those waves of flames
left nothing standing down
in the asphalt valley below,
just burnt ashes and dismay.
Now he just aimlessly
ambles along,
like a drunk
staggering the wrong way home.
He has the world
at his feet,
but his toes can barely
stand the heat.
He sighs in tired fear,
a lungful of painful smoky air
making his breath unclear.
The sound in his ears
drowning the nights normal cries.
I've been through hell
His anger rises, he cries
tears that could capsize
an oil tanker,
but these beasts
always seem to thrive.
I'm at the edge of my tether,
my old coat
now more thread than leather,
this guitar,
just strings
barely held together.
Even my hat
has seen better weather.
Atop the old
mountainous backdrop
of a city burning.
He screams in silent rage.
he hears it.
The sound of the twinkling rain
The awakening.
The moon
singing his name.
Barely audible
under the draining din,
but enough to start
his fiery blood
pumping again,
and towards the hum
the watchman starts walking…
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
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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