Probably not a great idea to answer that…
Don’t answer! He’s just trying to get you to buy magazine subscriptions!
This silent place, last to be created.
A lonely sentinel, watching out
across, the Bristol Channel,
icy water, lapping at his feet
beneath the distant, audience of stars.
With his shield of slate, held up high
against the ever present, threat of storm.
Stoic he stands, in desolation,
strong against, the cold.
Short cropped grass, clinging to his
thin, and barren soil,
wafted by, a tickle of breeze.
I too stand alone, gazing from his point
as the sun rises up to throw beams
of liquid gold across this spit of land,
defiant against the waves.
The folk tales tell, that
when God made the world
this point was last to be created.
the apocalypse comes
it shall be the first place
seized by the wrath of hell.
And so I stand watching the dawn, as
a tempest born out across
the vast Atlantic,
no longer contained, rushes
toward the land, bent on ravaging
Morte’s beautiful isolation.
An army of waves,
each larger, than the last,
throw themselves, upon,
his shield, of slate,
which has weathered, since time forgotten.
But now, I see a crack,
open up, in his armour.
The slate, crumbles
beneath the, relentless onslaught.
His steadfast, vigil is broken,
he yields, this dawn.
Winds which, before caressed
the gorse, like lovers
in the night, rend the limbs
from these, thorny shrubs.
Now all defence, has failed,
even my own, will falters.
So, having fled
from Morte point,
to a place of warmth and shelter.
Hands wrapped around
a drink of bitter black
brought from distant lands
with the characteristic hubris of man
to satisfy my desires.
I ponder a time foretold
where like this storm
the armies of perdition
shall corrupt this place sublime
with irresistible damnation.
As a child he could never comprehend,
now an adult he’s come to understand.
Memories long ago pushed down into
the shady chasms of his distant past,
still lurking, haunting his dreams each dark night.
How can he trust himself, with what he knows?
What hands which once resembled his own two,
what the blood he shares, what these things have done.
“How easy would it be?” He asks himself.
“To follow in the footsteps of what I
grew up fearing and now utterly loath,
to release some invisible demon,
that could yet lurk within my destiny,
which could take control of my clouded mind.”
So he hides behind a wall, built of blood
red bricks stacked so lofty, to trap his thoughts,
to keep all outsiders safely distant,
to trap what he dreads hides within his veins.
For any other to see what lies deep
within his faithless body and lost heart,
would destroy the fibre of his being.
So the wall grows with each new doubt filled day.
To become as much part of him as the
hate and sorrow ringed within the fortress.
All for the sins, of a father never
cared for. Only detested for a crime,
that his younger self was unaware of.
Which masks his disappointment in himself
my cupped hands
as I lower,
brown leaf within.
The first inhale brings with
it, a slight regret,
is this really
filling my lungs
with deadly warmth
and raising my spirits.
The spark of guilt
fades along with
He struts his watch
along the roof’s edge
close to the drop,
his chest puffed out
proud to show no fear.
Then the other.
His smart grey uniform
stands out against the tiles,
coloured like congealed blood.
The sentry’s call,
a throaty coo,
“All is well!”
until it’s not.
A rival shows his face,
and so the sentry,
armed only with
and bony feet
launches from the edge.
Plummeting for a second
before labouring upwards
as he flees.
He stands alone
outside, with a breath
mingled with smoke and steam
unarmoured against the white cold.
How he must wish that he
had worn his coat,
on this ill-advised
as he stamps
in a futile attempt
the icy wind.
The black angular frames
trap her eyes.
In stark contrast to her
softly contoured cheeks; lightly flushed.
The thick black line;
a harshly drawn cage.
Subduing the expressive
brown eyes within.
on the tarmac.
Keys jangling concealed,
within a pocket.
The two sounds,
and my breath,
is obstructing me,
In my legs.
My gut with,
I pause to refocus,
And catch my breath.
Stretch it out,
And start again.
Iron grey rocks,
a faded line between,
the watercolour sky,
and violent sea.
Yellow blossomed gorse,
strongly scented of coconut,
with a hint of soap.
The short cropped grass
clinging to the thin, poor soil
is nibbled on
by an errant sheep.
All around the squat lighthouse,
walled against the elements,
a fortress of human arrogance
in the face of nature’s strength.
It even boasts
a pristine garden
in contrast to the wild.
An island of human control
smart and organised,
to aid sailors as they
navigate amongst the hidden rocks.
Reposted as something that can be reblogged. ON WRITER'S BLOCK.
I’ve seem to be hitting writer’s block far too often now. My grade in my creative...
“Hello Rioters. Look at your friend, now back to me. Now at your friend, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped using petrol bombs and...”