i forgot to put my image in a photograph.
it was walking with a crowd inside a dream;
humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph
who have left this herd, unseen-
to its shadows of indifference
and coats pulled-to in self defence,
searching for omnipotence-
red sky too intense.
do i stay, or go now?
work it out for me?
what is left to grow now?
to make, and be?
black doors in the distance,
let in specific light,
while opposites of resistance
limbo in twilight-
like wicks without matches,
living in opaque eyed hatches
and wired stone-
drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches
for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches,
now splinters of bone,
not coming home.
Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five…
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