Adam Silk Poet Rhyme

Cry of A Nomad

Thousands of hands slash their eyes
When a thousand truths turn bloody lies.
Her morning smells of stale beer,
Her evening tastes of local fear –
Lights flicker on. Beds curse the strain.
Not the mind, not the head
Knows the helix of pain 
That aches in man: downwards led.
Stoic statues weep at bleeding shelves
Of drooling words and lost lovers;
Everyman stands in walled cells
Dim and dimming others.

The sun descends, dark clouds unite,
Caged cattle cry, birds and wind fight:
The heart, the street, the sky, fall ill –
The world bleeds. Yet the stars shine still.

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