To Orpheus
-or-
Why we should bring down the government
immense soft cushion dug into the earth
like the imprint of a giant's heel
medieval in aura
the leaves lay dry over the empty ground
just like dusty tea-coloured folios
prostrated over Alexandria's tiled floor
beneath and in leafless patches lay womb-like earth
no actual liquid but it was present in sensation
Like cheek flesh of a teenage virgin
milky and flushed with frail blood
sending shivers down spine
tingling in the ear
causing worn, dusty hands to moisten
on the tears neither of joy or grief
but of helplessness to fate
Sorta victorian in a Browning sense-
the girl
you know the poem "the name of the flower"
Each tree surrounding and expanding
its thick trunk
so tall with no top in sight
stand like pillars of ruins
Vast Horrific Ruins
in a nameless logicless land
content with the smirk of Psyche, now.
post-apocalyptic
walking amidst these hollow
brings tears, and clenching of fists
what mighty lives once took place
now laid to waste
in the smirking face
of those damn, infandible rhymesters
Hopefully they were no kingdom or else
it's best not to grieve at all
But to smile with joy and peer
into the vast depths of a wide stream
turned lightless coagulated brown
reflecting no light
but stands still like some mirror on their hearts.
-Neill Torna
