deepundergroundpoetry.com
Cage the flora and fauna :i can still feel them crawling under my skin
Enshrined on a pedestal of particular stature
glint shining glimmer wroughted iron souvenir I keep as mine
coo coo a pine warbler eats seed as feathers rattle in easternly defense
is it with nesting we've grown comfortable
stick and twigs and twats and pricks
a cursed ringing in my left ear
smashing in my heart that sounds like hate hunkered in a corner
lashing out at an ever sprawling metro world
picking auburn pine needles out from our rested trousers
slashing blue sky clouds taking shape of melatonin aviaries
can I prune a carefree moment of the garden in my mind
pulled back branches
roving brush
revealing another shrouded acre unexplored
still we splish and splosh our porcelain cups and pots
of tea to tilt and tip a tasty tumble such as her
will I wake scared when air raid sirens sound
the lions roar and wail of hounds
reality is dissection whilst still alive
while reading placards and awards I feel the hilt and stab of swords
as accomplishment's often boil and simmer harshly down to mute
haunted by this this pooling electric light god on the hill
over a churning black bay
I fancy travel and a language not my own
glint shining glimmer wroughted iron souvenir I keep as mine
coo coo a pine warbler eats seed as feathers rattle in easternly defense
is it with nesting we've grown comfortable
stick and twigs and twats and pricks
a cursed ringing in my left ear
smashing in my heart that sounds like hate hunkered in a corner
lashing out at an ever sprawling metro world
picking auburn pine needles out from our rested trousers
slashing blue sky clouds taking shape of melatonin aviaries
can I prune a carefree moment of the garden in my mind
pulled back branches
roving brush
revealing another shrouded acre unexplored
still we splish and splosh our porcelain cups and pots
of tea to tilt and tip a tasty tumble such as her
will I wake scared when air raid sirens sound
the lions roar and wail of hounds
reality is dissection whilst still alive
while reading placards and awards I feel the hilt and stab of swords
as accomplishment's often boil and simmer harshly down to mute
haunted by this this pooling electric light god on the hill
over a churning black bay
I fancy travel and a language not my own
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