Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

Death’s skies
mount the bulls of my imagination
to attack at the first drop
of hard rain to hit my nose.

If its falling fast then
I’m raging out of another lonely night,
deep in sombre
duvet covered skies.

Tommorow i'll see the trekking figures
forming out of grey daylight,
through Indian towns filled with neon at night.

I won't hush the pale night away,
when rains going to fall the next day
and bulls wont charge for 12 or more hours
on my command.

I'll sit it out
in quiet wonderment
of life’s ability to remain desperate.