deepundergroundpoetry.com
Evening Landscape of the Soul
I could never dream of hell
as pure as this uncertainty.
The coffers of the soul
are holding dust and little else.
Hell in this cloud of mind is then
the grey and pregnant skies,
above the cranes and scaffolding
that I can see from work’s window.
A sense of rotting, time stretched out,
an emptiness where life should be...
The crypt is yawning, tiredness
the weeds that choke the ancient lea.
Divorced of human hope,
the tower holds just years, and rope.
as pure as this uncertainty.
The coffers of the soul
are holding dust and little else.
Hell in this cloud of mind is then
the grey and pregnant skies,
above the cranes and scaffolding
that I can see from work’s window.
A sense of rotting, time stretched out,
an emptiness where life should be...
The crypt is yawning, tiredness
the weeds that choke the ancient lea.
Divorced of human hope,
the tower holds just years, and rope.
Published 30th Sep 2022
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Anonymous
30th Sep 2022 4:24pm
This has the redolence & decomposition of a certain R.S. Thomas. The jaded sense of “…and he made away with, yawning, into the day’s dream.” Great title too. Kudos from Y Rob.
30th Sep 2022 5:44pm
It was originally just “Untitled” before I realised that I was basically describing a landscape haha.
