Porcelain castings of death,
In the green house of dreams,
Stacked lonely on bygone dusty shelves,
memoirs of perfect life trapped beneath cracked glass,
sickly green and brittle broken,
dirty blood stained;
and no place for the Sun.
Tin pot tearing Brambles,
sever rusty watering cans,
thoughts of eternal desert torture,
dripping from bullet pocked troughs,
makes puddles of reeking straw rotting time,
where the Flies of yesterday’s neglect,
breed Maggots for tomorrow’s guilt,
in the village of bones where dust children play;
with the ghosts of forgotten Dogs.
~Old Road’s Prophecy~
I rode along decaying roads,
where steel once fled Elysium;
in White Rabbit delirium.
The Trees have claimed back their land,
tarmac cracked and flower filled;
rushing rails of time slow killed.
Horse Chestnuts fall where Squirrels run,
old highway of death no longer roars;
another age beneath the forest floors.
I lent my bike against an Alder trunk,
listened to Beech Mast drop,
within Ivy’s realm a sign said stop.
The carpet of leaves a covering,
hide Cat’s Eyes and long white lines;
following the clock hand’s tine.
Brushing the leaves of years aside,
a road written prophecy of the day;
it said, though never read...give way.
©D.N.Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author
