deepundergroundpoetry.com

AT BLACKWOOD'S EDGE

Of teak and torpor, caged
Behind the one-way oculus
Of a dust curtained vantage
Is the self I loathe to trust

And her ghost was his keeper
That fluid hand on his shoulder
Was never truly felt, until dried

And in the light just below the lintel
From this stained glass prison
Colours the rain that never fell
Upon misericord impressions

But what is it you yearn for?
But a window, or an open door?

Upon the rocks, beneath the shade
At Blackwood's Edge, a debt was paid

Those black strands, like tendrils
Flowing outward from the supine
In malefic arms intertwined
The silhouette of inhibition, mine

Our hands could never meet
As far as I reached...
A rosary she held to her heart
She knew that toil from its start

And thousands of wordless pages
Cast from salt accretion
As another chapter rests
Between polyvinyl lips
And varicose verses

Another huffed yesterday
For an exhaled continuity
Substance-bridged connections
An armamentarium deception

It was not my intent...
To waste passion on neglect
Like laudanum and ambergris
It's safety that I couldn't give

At Blackwood's Edge, we held the truth
In bloodied hands, our stolen youth
Cruel fate, that we'd lost our way
To cherish what remains today