Count Grief

Once upon a sickly child,

Cultivated, frenzied in and out of mankind; 

A hunted deer at the hip, jaw

Half gnawed with arctic apologies,

We slept, frenzying, in, out, in,

The illustrious and daunting future, of which

The bow cracked, tideless against the

Hesitance. 

I met a man at pause, his breath squandered in bleak reluctance;

His wife a penny-wish below ground, fountain's spurting their sorries like

A blubbering baby, it's mother does not care anymore,

The sky looks down on it in faint pity, but it shall receive no more until the man with

Meat, a rarity, throws his sorry bones onto the cobbled street of

Once-was-a-boulevard. 

Forgetting my name, this time, and that,

He strode on, on, into the portrait

Of time, hips cocked like a proud

Mammal of instinct, through

The crisis, lips muttered

The glass woman, an hourglass,

Sand rolling through the waves of flesh,

Penny it away like you had anything to give.

Apollo's sorry now, too. 

His cemented jaw quakes as if the vulnerability

Humanises him, God of gas, God of Earth,

His fingertips bringing India's nose into line

So his retinas did not have to exert themselves

Beyond the horizon.

Humanity is bereft. How many more times

Need I say it. Humanity claws at curtains of ashes

Of forlorn of tranquility of you of me of them of this,

We are at a stand-still, heels dug into the ground, defiance,

Like we have the right to give it. Arches against the current,

The flow of it belonging to us.

How many times, how many sorries?

Humanity is silent. Finally. Fists clenched

Against the reason of suffrage, the man is at peace

Once more.  

Author's Note

Any advice or criticism would be much appreciated. Equally, if you like it, let me know! My ego could do with some fluffing up!

-Ophelia //
Abbey