The dim afternoon dozes
Skin the colour of jaundiced turmeric
It wakes with a sudden jerk
At the bored call of a black crow.
and runs in a drunk staggering gait,
trampling grass charred by the winter sun
into a lazy silence dripping from the sky
like an intravenous solution from a poisoned bottle.
Up on the fog-stained sky loom half knit clouds
Like an overheard babble
Of heartbroken sighs, dry blood and destitute tears.
The policed world is a torn web of a deceased huntsman spider.
Beneath this cloak of fog
lies hidden the lost city of dead lights.
City of dead lights, who will draw the map to the prison
of exiled lights?
Is the prison guarded not guarded by foul empty tracts
and the horned ghosts fed
On briars and brambles in our blasted houses.
The humiliated army of desire
Snores in total resignation on imported beds of shame.
City of dead lights, I can’t be consoled
What if the army of desire resigned to defeat
abstains from night’s siege?
Lord bless your sweet hearts. Call upon them to convey:
When their lamps are lit tonight, let high wicks be on display