Poetry Writing
christopher godber  

An Island sits in ruin

This Island sits in ruin
split down the middle, ruined
tune of the howling dog
lost in the fog, black
and brazen beast, hair.

I walk down sunlit streets,
immersed in the solemnity
that is my want. I reverse, rewind
and play it all back, the screams,
the endless chasm of the undertow
lying on the other side of the street.

All God and no religion, all zest without
meaning, It’s enough to drive one mad –
it has.

Tracing back memory to find the skin
all I find is a wolf staring back
with hollow hungry eyes, the beast that feasts
at cock of dawn, day by day, inside.

The Island is split down the middle.

The Dog lays leaden over a hung court,
we want a world that makes more sense
but we can’t really see it, albeit in
distance, no it’s not here.

Yet, the Island is split down the middle.

What’s here is the sound of dizzying cries,
the flesh of the innocent burnt for Mamon
the burnt umber of the spirit, it provides no comfort,

I dream of someone or something to pull me out of this
perfect calamity, peace is a world I can scarcely remember –
such pain, such leaden cliches.

Nothing is ever perfect, the Tertiary turning of the screw
the wolf howls and paddles in his boat towards a fresh death.
Whimpering soul of me, drowning in a cup of coffee, lost, afraid
and lacking faith. I swim. Drown sometimes, then resurrect, unfortunate and unwilling Lazerus. Blinking into mortal light.

Each day is another trial, the end seems far away, and close at the same time.
I don’t think this one has a happy ending.

Divide by 2, create 1.

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