Young Writers Society

.......Bread broken
by hands as dry as the cowboys lunge,
and later they hold
quiet good byes
over a cold ear.

For veins of wine,
the grifter's fallacy
belongs beneath the glitter of
phosphorus, where treacherous words
escape like bats from a cave.

And the audience gawk
the rorschach fleet
swirling against the moon;
the black sky heaves and crawls,
steeped in unholy metaphor.



.......Good byes don't hurt,
not like I'm sorry.
God knows I've uttered a few.

Like when I learnt
that breath can be forced
into dead lungs

and the metronome
thumped from hibernation,
but that doesn't matter any more.

Got your message and logged on immediately. You may not see this so I will email you my thoughts on the poem. Though I suspect this poem may be something of an anomaly. You've got my email

Really makes you think. I had to read it once or twice to grasp exactly what you were trying to say, but I understand it fully by the end. great description and nice smooth flow with words. Altogether excellent!