Sunday, 21 August 2011
The place of the damned
Is but the crumbling fabric of our ageing mind.
Depleting, suffering mind.
However it extenuates,
To the harrowed grounds
Of this childhood place.
Whose bare feet are swallowed
By the overpowering green mounds,
Moulding their mind into negation.
Although its nurturing hand sculpted these words,
Its tiresome flesh rots sour with the plague of rats.
Under the arches,
The echoed slap underfoot celebrates dubiously in your ears
Whilst a myriad of
Lavishly caressing their mirrors.
Lady Fortune however
Is not faithful to those,
Whose only master is themselves.
And the cuckoldry head of reality will slip,
Treacherously bleeding their eyes
Towards Ophelia’s Lake.
Of the house of the dead
Leaving a wake of bloodied victims.
Whose inverted faces will snap their necks
As the light of life draws near.