Gone, the cry of the nurtured
of minds led by divine grace.
Gone, the enlightened process of reason
the functions twisted by acquisition.
Gone, the free-spirited souls
fluttering under the canopied rooftops.
Gone, the righteous champions of the spotlight
crashing down to lay with the mortals.
All that remains; a footprint in the sand
Washed away by the rising tide.
In timeless breaths
it bites, gnaws at my soul.
Hammering at the door.
“Where is your master!”
Bellowing whilst he crawls
None withstanding, crashing upon the door.
“The master is I, and I master none!”
Shouting, raving to a score
Silent reply and silence heard only by the door.
Yet, Still I lay a-waiting
Forever abound by this droll
Crashing and rasping upon the door.
Street sounds awaken
The passing cars marks progress.
Longing for green fields.
The ardent use of grammatical;
form to break up the natural
flow of this piece, is farsical;
At best we tolerate, at worse,
we fabricate, and of course
at the functions of criticism we curse.
Sea of eager minds
Entering the grind
I’ve seen many minds
Burnt out, but still relentless
Smoothed once milk added
A kettle boiled thrice
the mind driven by its books
Shall never drink tea.
The chilling breeze calms
Walking, the air feels vibrant
Oops I forgot lunch