The Wailing Guitar

Savoured roots at the tip of a spade Dying leaves escape their own tree’s shade We’re in a draught, spare me your tears Unless you’re a portfolio full of shares The land is levelled by green boots Their orders given by black suits Does anyone know who invented the book? The written word whose hand knowledge shook? I'm the wailing guitar's disconnected speaker The cure found in the slip of a broken glass beaker The trillions locked away in a vault of greed The billions our fear safely breeds I'm surrounded by a heat of hatred My peaceful world's smouldering and defeated Deep in lack of love's crippling frustration Sunny days clouded in cold perspiration Life is crawling down the barrel of a gun In the firing line of death rays escaping the sun I count my enemies in each empty shell I pick it up to glimpse down the bottom of hell I'm seen in forgotten memory A lost entry in a 1939 Nazi diary Left out to wet and dry like an old newspaper Let me fly this wind fate's prepared proper I was searching for peace and quiet I couldn't afford to pay a requested quote So I live up the slippery walls of a bleeding nose Along the ear channel’s tunnelled noise I hear whispered dark secrets Confessions and prayers hummed and sacred Shouted insults and empty threats The clearing and swallow of a dry throat Thabang J. Ngoma 13-12-2015 John lawless’s Where Echoes Hide - Poetry Contest