IN THE BLIGHT

The rocking men
on the crest.
Fidgeting fingers,
numbers in mind,
at their best.

No rest, by simple
follies. Gravity
in every step.
Crept the silent
chest. Counts
with every breath.

In the state.
In the avarice.
In the whip.
In the blight
of Icarus,
tip to tip.

And in the sun
the bell tolls.
Illusions of nobility,
and men without
souls.

Reviews

[Ruth]

Blimey...good to see you still reeling the wheel of poignancy hon...glad I stopped by today, this hit hard as it should, epic...

[Rene Velez]

Hi Poppy, hope all is well, and thank you for the review. Always good to hear from you. I'm still on FB. New account.

[Ruth]

Oh, I wondered where you'd gone...hit with me a request if you wish to hon...and my pleasure...

[Rene Velez]

Absolutely