The slowly opening eye
through the filthy stye
the strangled sinuous trees
overhead they freeze
motionless, and vivid
The maker's mark
was but a pock
from whence below
the staggered beat enveloped
All was lost
the sense of purpose
flinching and trepidatious
they sought refuge
The familiarity of frequencies
was blotted out by blackness
the melancholy
palpable, lingering in the air
The anoxia, the sickness
atrophy in the slackness
there, an overwash of silt
it buried nothing but our guilt
The embers were spilt
but nothing further built
there ceased the tribulations
of what was furtively a failure
Yet still, the striving
nothing was to thrive
and despite this cohesion
the vernacular ceased
Suffocating it was pulled,
under by the remorseless muck
choking and sputtering
there was only a languid breath
All that was left
to suck the final syllable
where white pine coffins
were draped with staccato thoughts
Bleached memories
as bleak as the orbits,
that are now gazing back
once orbs that observed
this same lichenous life.
All word and visual craft are property of Liam Lanigan (2008), use only with permission.
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