We walk towards a promised land,
soaked in milk and softest sand.
hard trudge
of cracked feet, muddled in the mire
roadside ditches
dirge laden as they walk.
chapped and broken mouths cry out
for a tase of sweet water
to imbibe the knowledge of man’s long
dance with death.
and I, from my mount
stand tall agains the ruined sky
a king carried above the filthy ash that
floats
upon the fetid wind from the west
in the last days of the sun.
Our feet are hot, the path is still.
We bend towards the future’s will.
Your eyes are caved and bleak.
The road is long
when the trudge follows only cloud dreams,
pink and blue and pale
but stupid drops in a cracked palm.
Die – leave the children, they can whisper
to the sky and gather stones,
suck salt fingers with
dry pink tongues like maple.
They do not know to need;
they forget the red skies and smoke.
Each broken step is precious blood,
Our father’s deaths were writ for good.
Like barnacles
clinging to the hull of a ship
Just beneath the topaz surface
or in the oily brine dark
they know only to clutch
to the scraps of life
anything to stay bouyant
Each broken step is precious blood,
Our father’s deaths were writ for good.
I will,
take the earthen bowl
raise it to the deaf gods of a cracked
heaven
They queue at my altar
clutch and raise the hem
of my vicar’s robe
to leave blood kisses
and bits of carrion feathers
upon the mangy threads
I will, minister the salt potion
tip the dusty rim against their teeth
Let is pass through their wispy curtain
of bone husks
Broken, clinking and tangled
marionettes in the grip
of Oblivion
We ache for salt, we burn for bread.
But good men are by hardship led.
Lyrical tithe
their hearts do speak
blindy their sullen eyes will seek
A wooden grail
lying in the road
to grease their lips whilst speak their ode
But the chipped rim
of their sacred cup
will only serve to shut them up
For a bauble held
in desperate hands
can make so much much gold from dust and sand
We ache for salt, we burn for bread.
But good men are by hardship led.
And while I could
direct them safe
my purpose remains to abrade and chafe
United by thirst
they’re of no use to me
I need them at odds, abandoned and weak
We walk towards a promised land,
Soaked in milk and softest sand.
We’ve not enough tears to wet the land
and bring the grass, anew
We’ve only the memories
of a time before this
when all our dreams came true.
A deadened bruise of sky will wake
upon the morrow’s echoed dawn.
Put on your dark, your blackest things –
the sweet old earth will mourn.
