There is no music to mould this heavy air
This was god’s finger, rested on a breath
These twisted bars, metal, mark the space where
God came touching gently

There is no pulse to underlie
Or move the figure by the fence
He has stopped, his name was Time
All desire, far-gone and spent

Air grew weary of its weight
And slumped below leafless limbs
Metal trees hung limp and could not pray
Dirt made faces on the ground: hell-bound seraphim.

I hang gently just above this plain
Where wind has given rivers to the soil
Nothing grows in emptiness sustained
Our wine seeps up, celibate, impure and dark as oil

We would reach if minds would move
And we exist as ornaments
Carapace nightmares, adorned like dancing fools
The wastes of our old sentience

Time died some while ago
And since then my eyes have stared
And found purpose, like arrows
Point-down, fletched and flared

Through cracked lips I whispered them
And bade them off from this dead hole
Back to their broken-fingered god
And everything I used to know

I hang, an art of priceless malady
No music moves this heavy air
Stare not too long or deeply to me
I grip. I steal. I am despair.

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others