In mortal cradles
bodies do they sleep,
bombed to tears,
in earthly threads.
A bitter walk on city bones,
frost an ally
strips of soul (kept here for towns to mourn)
as ancients rise to glass lambs
and wild prayer.
How sleep the morbid brave,
whistling for capers
and reigning sin.
Who is who?
Of carpet cadavers?
The skin trilogy:
birth
and disease,
and dying in a rosy shell
as wolf takes hold...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
More poetry from Welsh poet/writer Steven Francis. Described by one reviewer as "the poet with a magic microscope into human emotion", Steven is a fascinating walk into a dawn where the sun reveals everything...
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, 18 November 2013
Monday, 12 August 2013
Death: Art and Easy Task
The death of a stranger is never a worry
to others, not a pain;
as death of yourself will be easy for those
who dwell not within your name.
A sad glance at an occasional obituary
(maybe yours)
and then off to news and sport
at the clicking of a kettle.
Care for gentle breaths
always venturing on being last...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
to others, not a pain;
as death of yourself will be easy for those
who dwell not within your name.
A sad glance at an occasional obituary
(maybe yours)
and then off to news and sport
at the clicking of a kettle.
Care for gentle breaths
always venturing on being last...
©Steven Francis poems 2013
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