The Writing on the Wall
The writing on the wall,
Hand carved, a deeply engraved tattoo.
Of an existence so minuscule,
But still flickers a flame, a kaleidoscopic illusion of you.
Artefacts of our forgotten culture, tiptoe – scarring charcoal tarmac with a permanent mark.
Your handwriting is merely one of life’s many beautiful calamities.
Erasable, ever piercing my violet spark,
Beneath the wretched being that lies here, he cascades in soft, deceitful infidelities.
Still singing in the spring, sprung sun!
Enamoured oh! How secrets sweep silence! We’re flatlining, don’t you see?
Lines lost, conquering the unreachable horizon.
Far from this paper-town, this clandestine-glazed patriarchy.
Where they hunt you for those past lives, previous whiles,
Under twisted ivy and vulture smiles…