Hands. (Photo credit: Mrs Logic)
Behold the salted land of plenty,
raped and pillaged by its own devoted grace
now stalked by storied banshee
no lines by which to draw a brace.
What bounty once divined,
what passion might have lain
now blinded and maligned
before the dusty plow could feign.
We are cracked
callow and divinely sallow—
yes, youth has lived to see the fated act:
these writers’ hands grown fallow.
(And for an update on why this crazy writer’s life has been crazy this past week, and the blogging sporadic, see my lively life update–complete with a new review of The Hollow March!)
Writhing serpent of my dissolution
To your pollution
Of my ever-yearning soul
No more grim atoll
Might ever seize upon my whole—
My life, my life!
They call upon the fife
Thrusting its notes upon the edge of a knife
Might ever prevail
Above the madness that assail
My spirit wails, unfit
To persevere and to submit
To all the hopes that you have writ.
* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another. Enjoy!