Sand – Page 8 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

Time Was Running Out

The arrogance of control was living on, above the ground, the poverty was draining the relatives still looking for a lifebelt with a crock of gold in the middle.

Time was running out so was patience, the survivors took the graveyard rubbing hardened lichen from weather worn wobbly stones and there it stood, as I speaking aloud.

It is here, all you are seeking, I am the mystery relative, dead but a saviour nonetheless you will find the box of an unknown uncle the contents inside the brazen husk will unlock all you requirements forever, it is called hell.

Dust Returns

Ashes for sale different grades & classification, but dust returns in the fluted conduits of time, to be part of the furniture or shot to the sky because there is more to us than our passing but we haven’t arrived at the station..

The Peace of Sleep

The peace of sleep is the sleep I get, or is it death, I know not yet as I seem to wake in a different state, have I changed, is it the new beginning I long for or is the prescription the same, no longer a fresh young being I keep checking my spark to be, today is to be quick but I am trying to work out why and who is the driver it is about time I got off this bus I think I will sleep again maybe longer this time.

A Clean Sheet Before You Go

Accountable for your extremes now you’re in a sweat the last week, write it down, how many times did you run away.

Write your sins down the clock is ticking you cannot ask your parents for they are but dead and the rest of us are dying, you want a clean sheet before you go, I am panicking god has given me the final cathartic challenge to clear my sins, to save the soul.

There are now four days to go and the clock is ticking, tick tock, my head on the block Jesus Christ avoid hell, what did I say the inquistion arrived in the last days .

John & Pancreatic Pete Ride Again Que The Music…

phead

Brazier under the canal bridge flaming holes fiercely flaming pluto John and pancreatic Pete sit as meditating beings of a kind… road kill rabbit rolling on an abstract metal rod flame head billowing from a redundant oil barrel, bright the shadowy duo poking the urgent flames with intent, they are hungry beyond any food banks.

The charmed simplistic brotherhood of the fire keeps a talking culture alive in the reality of poverty, permeation so disengaged from an expanding world of White Diamond and Eight Ace lager, taking over there one known world that is burning itself out, as they gaze at the final flames under a canal towpath bridge with the sound of faint but audible friendship . Pissheads, happy pissheads, causing no harm to mobody, rule Britainia.