The first lie

Deals with the first sense of loss at a young age.

"Where's my cat!" The circus whimper of a child bullied, blazing sirens,  

that wounded plastic carcasses and stuff less animals. 

"Where's, my, cat!" The crowd of seamless faces, bobbed,  pinching rubber 

peaches, unanswered. Blasts of tender graffiti  rest on baked wheat and cane, 

as the years crawl, as the weeps dry, 

for she is not here, 

she, is not, here. 

Curled no longer  under the winter claw, where frost and grey bite the heart 

Coy no longer under the spring harvest, where song and buzz breathe the air 

taunt no longer under the summer fizz, where haze and smur stale the night 

Stretched no longer under the autumn wine, where yellow and red mask the land   

but resting the vintage years of tempered bliss 

neith the branches of feathered bounty. 

There she lay, 

there she became, 

unwoven glamour by earth's lethargic deeds  

sweet and sickly her memories remain 

For jest, the gabble squabble of perps and peeps, blister the cool spring morn 

mocking the crime 

no more to be quarried by stealth and slaughter 

no more to be nicked like wild flowers in frenzied gather 

but rested in flight and alarm, 

the edge put to sleep. 

The temper of vanity seeks no more the families of tail and scamper, 

with the scent of panic laced flurry, now fallow, mist and dew stutters their  

flight through towers of green blade, the stalkers paradise, the cradle 

of sanctuary, the days for many in the plight to pillage. 

"Where's my cat! The calamity of brutal apologies bruise, 

my life's a pawn to chalk there minds, 

for they know, to sleep with a gun at night 

for they know, to brush with a soft bristle  

to hell they know, a question for an answer,  

the lie for a tale, 

it is the promise,  

the withered end to a buttered page, 

the juice flows,  

cold as sour, 

it sticks.