Still an Illusion

They, wrapped up in distressed linen cloth, standing
By canterburies of incorporeal prints
Tried to hold onto throes of intangible realities.

The same bandages didn’t console those pungent airs,
That forebode unmitigated fairs of disbelieving fears:
Promontory offenses on useless appeals of time.

Their loves built towers up on wide hollow fields
Ridiculously validated by dunes of instability
While overtly knowing the futility.

The piece de resistance: a diluted menage a trois,
Fineries reduced to relativities as filthy insectoids raided
Their tarnished crafts of mortifying indulgences.

Thinking their hidden flesh decaying underneath
Would provoke disbelieving holds of noses,
Whilst they’d run and click their tongues, a tut-tut,

Wanting to believe they could be loved; a grimaced hilarity.


Advertisements

Harbored Ports

Buoys float on blue-green brine
In flares of flaking chicory reds
On alloys of rusted parts
As chains act as anchors nearby
Harbored ports, littered with
Boats along the coast.

Oils discolour with toxicity
As its poisons fill up gills
Of the poor little fishies
In delirious quantities
In noxious dreary knolls.

Booms contain whilst skimmers collect;
Missing forgotten ambiguities
Of misconceptions in disbelief.

The Purpose of Poetry

He reveled in the beauty of his lovers,
Of the marvels of the earth,
The treasures of the universe,
The offspring life birthed.

He saw beauty;
How does one who sees,
Decide to cease
Ambling down paths
Unfolding.

Was the trek so cruel and sick
That he’d simply leave
With reckless abandon.
Was there nothing
That could press him
To maintain cognition.

I don’t know how much he was hurting.

But he could have been lying.

It could have been
The purpose of poetry.

-Sabs-