These old trees

constructive criticism always welcome

Broken steps echo in those homeless woods.
First step. Echoes.
Second step. Echoes.
Third step. Echoes.
Broken steps melt in silence
Overdubbed
With heavy breathing in the winter fog.
Thin-brush-painted trees.
Scattered.
Scorpios,
Dead and black
In that desert of white porcelain.
Homeless are the steps in hushed forest
Between long-necked black swans
In the white foam.
Snow?
No.
White hills are white horses.
They humbly roam
In winter foam.
White and warm.
These old trees are tar-filled
Arteries
Of
The one he must bury this winter.
Same black colour for the coffin
Of
His own daughter.
These old trees are thin
Elegant ink lines on the letter
She had sent last year.
What did she say?
She takes a train,
Black lightning in a ghost sky.
Going where?
These old trees are girl’s eyelashes
On her snow-laced face,
Virgin profaned
By the weight of dreams.
Shattered.
She never said where.
We all leave home for a better somewhere.
These old trees are the black pearls
Scattered
In the shape of a necklace
On
A girl’s neck,
White as white is the forest
And melancholic
As black trees
Under
Hysteric
Chain-saw,
Falling bloodless in the white snow.
It was a rope.
The dead are homeless.
These old trees are the ceased barks
Of a childless father.
Broken and black
Notes
And the pauses
Between them
In the aria of pain.
The loudest silence
Is hidden
In the deep throat
Of a
Ceased
Baritone.
What sing the dead?
The dead are homeless
These old trees are thin wood
Which his old hands cut
For the coffin
Of his own daughter.
Broken steps echo in those homeless woods.

 

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

Gothic and Grimm. Dark as a line of red string through the dark wood.