Burning Silos
.
This Ashen Tongue
.
Shall we then caress into madness?
I gather my harvest in vein
As the silo burns
I turn to the hand of my hope
Cold pale fingers in my palm
Is there not one more breath?
Blue skies
Grey skies
Black skies
Smoke and rain
How can I cry anymore?
My eyes shrivel
Becoming parchment
Fading to the back of my head
Wanting to see no more
My ashen tongue
Weary of the screams
Hinders my voice
My arms
Toil laden
As dirty and bloody as the earth
Carries my harvest in vein.
.
May 9, 2008 at 2:59 pm
Ozymandiaz,
Black as hair and eyes and heart, I love the metaphor “ashen tongue.” I can almost taste it.
Keith
May 9, 2008 at 5:37 pm
This is very good, Ozy:
I turn to the hand of my hope
Cold pale fingers in my palm
Is there not one more breath?
May 9, 2008 at 9:45 pm
this makes me wonder,, if what we reap is not so much what we have sewn… but what we have left behind….
May 9, 2008 at 11:45 pm
Is this a dope poem? If it isn’t it sure a hell outta be. (If I’m displaying my strong sense of the obvious please forgive me for I know not what I do.)
May 9, 2008 at 11:52 pm
This piece sits very delicately on my pallate.
WOW…….
May 10, 2008 at 10:04 am
brilliant.
May 11, 2008 at 2:48 pm
Oooh Ozy,
I especially like……………
“My eyes shrivel
Becoming parchment
Fading to the back of my head
Wanting to see no more”
May 11, 2008 at 4:29 pm
Yes, I agree–I’m into it.
May 11, 2008 at 9:20 pm
A sublime poem, a treatise of despair. The eyes fading to parchment is quite vivid, but really, the whole poem is. Wonderful title too.
May 12, 2008 at 6:08 am
interesting, you’re very dark these days, what’s up?
May 13, 2008 at 9:55 pm
this reminds me of a vampire, thinking of a lost love or more maybe
of a life that could have been.