. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Thursday, January 4, 2018

Alas (or) Footprints In The Sand II

I went out walking this morning
   past dew and the fog from the sea,
to see if I could spot your love,
perhaps somewhere in the grey distance, infinite,
looking back at me,

no birds sang their shrill notes nor did the sounds from the ships
   reach the coast,
nor did the Earth move nor did any sinners boast,


my love is lost,
the sun is hidden,
and I am a shell,
an empty crumbling hell of a shell at most,

my feet bore me along twisted paths irresolute and demanding,
sand sucked on my bare bones in hopes that I would be caught unmoving,
perhaps standing,
long enough to be buried by the weather and my sadness,
the dead trees gathered round like sharks as they sensed my descent into madness,
foolish bastards!
I moved along scurried ever hunting in the rocks for laughter,

still, without the sun,
without the birds singing from throaty lungs,
I was at best lost
   and at worse done,
complete in my isolation,
at the end of the world,
known to no one,
a figure in shrouds whose disappearance had begun,
when you left
   you promised it was for the best,
you were wrong,
but still you've won.

pic by mariahurtadoi

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