Colin Mitchell Williams | + Follow Poet |
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Cold

In the collected fleece 
Soft white dappled against a crisp blue sky
Morning broke to its light of passion
As the phantom shades
Bowed their acquiescence
To the brush works of beauty 

All came to nothing
Rolled beneath the rubber
Black the highway snake, a river
Coughed upon the throat of petrol 
And lay smug polished paint
Greedy against the landscape

Yet still the hands of trees
Wave their benedictions in a billion leaves
To grant the silent heirs of peace
Some moment to ponder on their breath

She spoke of love

Still speaking though through confounded veils
And he impeached
By the quality of cloth
Knows not the words
Where love should walk
And so never the both, to tread its path

It is the playing cards of concrete then
To listen to, and reek revenge
And gnaw within a bone-ed soul
Bright illusion
And ever delusion
In knowing thought
Eat the ghosts
Of those dreams who knew us not

But bastions beckoned to the slaving sands
Each carcinogenic drop
Lays waste to all the love once felt inside life’s heart

And so it is in glass and steel 
The sunrise fallen
A mere decoration
To the passing of this days generation
While all the phantoms of our dreams
Are gathered to the market place
Baubles of meaningless intention
Designed to trap and enthrall
In the place where all our dreams are sold

In a vision, so swift onto the wing
Rides the swan from sleeping lake
Washed in sunset, shade from the mountains break
To fill a sky with eternal stars
And wish no tears to fall
Upon any human face
And whisper their reminder
Of beauties cavalcade

Behind the darkness this battalion moves
Ever a new armoury
In the flames of suffering wrought
Ever the twisted history
Schemed to provide in death dealings
Only to capture the image of hate
And sell it to the world

And in truth
The sweetness of every saviour
Every living, breathing messiah
Who spoke of love
Turn now those words impetuous
And nothing between, nothing exists between
The tarmac and rubber
Under the black snake river
Coughed in a throat of bitterness
Every second of our forgetfulness

And though rested upon creations throne
Fall to petty possessions
In the madness they have bequeathed
And fight for what little you own

There beneath the boot
Of bloodline and deception
Beneath the gold trinkets of religion
Let the words of the prophet be known

They will reap in death, horror and hell
All ! that they have sown

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