Time to answer the mirror's shrill cry,
where even bones of warriors
grieve for time's sharp exit
despite the wolds shaping the hammer of Gods.
Awake to shadow,
follow footsteps of the great scythe man,
stay sharp for nothing skips his icy gaze.
Silence, a worthy ally.
Firebird, take to thy wings
bring another soul to morgue town.
A full harvest, fit for mouners
dressed in sombre rags.
We know it well this dying caper,
know it better than our aged skin,
this flesh which hides so many crafty schemes.
Stretch the pose before you go,
one last go at life,
a last of this, last of that.
Then home to the crusty hole,
oh how Eden grows for weepers.
Meet End,
end meet life for a final grainy burial
Regret not, fear little,
that empty date which follows birth
isnt shaped to shake the frail,
or marked to crush the fatal sick.
Numbers,
digits of no order which need no script
to play the audience.
No equals nothing,
no for no;
men of hoods and guns,
of blades and viper words ~
every heart be it mad or virtuous
knows the track to ruin.
And yet not all die.
Not all will look through maggot eyelids
and feel their nails wilt.
Shut away the doom boys,
rip them from tiger roots to feed sharks,
perhaps honest creatures exist afterall...
©
Steven Francis poems 2014
