deepundergroundpoetry.com
THE MOSS UPON THE BARK IV: ONEIRODYNIA
Gone
Enough of these burning ropes
Guiding the toil through waters of forget
Where I could bottle my misery
And send it far away from me
I am foul and painted by tragedies
Wearing the cross that I wouldn’t need
Heathen of lichens, endure the rust
A mark on my forehead, shallow trust
Antique on the table of lost love
My words spew locusts
I obsecrate through dying pauses
My spite would savour each moment
To replace what was taken from me
Into the darkness of my sin
Tryst of shadows warp my kin
As callous as I’ve ever been
Availed her with a frozen grin
Colour is fading
Lacuna in me
Haematic hue is dripping
Oneiric rapid gripping
Tracing ktenology
Oneirodynia pervading
Tension is building
Pouring underneath
Memories that I am jilting
Crackling of bones
Weighing on my conscience
Sinews curtail my obeisance
Took the hand of a follower
Through empty rooms that darkness swept aside
In time, a name was soiled again
A page from old and ordinary days
Hidden faces
Escape from my breath
Anacrusis of lament
Culled by sedition
Devil in me
Devil tearing at the seams
In ataraxic scenes, comes the breeze
Floccipended serendipities
Through skepsis, striating these hands
Of twisted trees that ever sculpt the lands
Ere soligenous rays could fetter the calm
A caesura into which I belong
Cold embrace of maddened adjutor
No respite was found inside the specular
Bitter verses name my sorrow
The skin is dried and flecked
Lips fail to quiver at the thought
Of darker ones that capture hers
Into the darkness of my sin
Tryst of shadows warp my kin
As callous as I’ve ever been
Availed her with a frozen grin
This December snow oft a roaring flame
My semblance burns of the windowpane
The phantom fever, she’s crying still
And I depart with my now broken will
Deen a ot noirrac emaceb I dna
Now
I am willingly led
To where old hearts die
In the cusp of a singular moment
My translucence etched into the wreath
Footsteps still following down wind-swept roads
Pale, griseous endowment
Split the curtain
I loathe to bequeath them
Hung by the gossamer of joy
The moss that still clings to the bark
A day so alive, yet still so dark
In the shade we thrive, alone but not
Cannibalized
And in feeble reveries, we rot
‘In some old and forgotten places
Untouched by time
I do indeed believe that they’re still there
Red eyes in the mists of our forgetfulness
Always watching us from afar
With nothing but contempt
When the only sound is the cracking of oaks
The danger is when senses fail you
Do not be martyred by ignorance’
Published 21st Nov 2016
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22nd Nov 2016 1:29am
I love this poem. The obscurity of the language and the words used add confusion and complexity in themselves, even without understanding their meaning. The last line is a perfect ending, with just enough prevalence and abruptness to draw attention without being overpowering. Well done!
22nd Nov 2016 9:00am
