Ken Allan Dronsfield Poet Imagism

Of Sallow Pallor

Trust is an oak tree with shallow roots.
so very treacherous in windy weather.
I feel as though I'm glued to the floor;
pinned like a moth to an insect display.

I wish to leave this horrible evil place, 
run far away into the cold, dark night.
In the flickering shadows of mankind
sympathetic words are a honeycomb, 
sweet to the soul; healing to the heart.

Dreams rise and fall like lunar tides;
engrossing thoughts flood the brain; 
as blood through old varicose veins.
Flotsam strewn about dying fields as
jetsam falls from darker, foggy skies.

Face rises to the sun, a sallow pallor.
Vultures perched, perversely hawing;
a flag is folded in presentation style;
roses tossed onto a shiny new casket.
The eve of one's quietus has arrived.

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