Dead Ballads
Dead Ballads
Written on the pages of time
read tarnished couplets and
quatrains
which corroded pauses are
leprechauns sat on pots and
pans
which melt before and after the
rain. Yet the lyrics exist, they
are just a phantom, a semblance-
in a ghoulish apparition,
they are moved but recurs, the
leaves too timid to roll unless
a wind stronger than impulse
blows.
Unsung ballad, let us unearth
the remains that are forgotten,
for they are glorious scrap
books
and their fragments are laurels.
Majestic their wreath indeed
when newborns brawl, when
recollecting is for excerpts and
extracts a lair, and forgetting
the cannibal that's
habitual.
Lair is the Harpy and
contemporary is the claw for
her to devour the rhytmic
flesh, the tamed, the essence
and purpose of romance: the
praises given by the young to
the Winged Creature. The nest
they made they shall roost, its
straw decks undeck and the
nestling
forsaken until the abode fell:
the lair below and the Wicked
above.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
