Poetry

A Little Glimpse into my Mind

The following poem is probably my least ambiguous and the first I've written in around five years.
Corr
Crumbling Metropolis

Crumbling Metropolis

The Metropolis' mechanisms grind
more monotonous than previously
                            Yet still they grind.
Corruption
Capitalism
Control
            All consuming
Protests denied, serfdom a status once thought dead
revived under the shroud of pandemic.
Flags wave with fascist pride
Statues of past virtue drenched with sin
placed highly; protected above the living.

unrest simmers tentatively,
cracks creak beneath the fragile surface
Revolt
Live
Encapsulate.

What does it mean to be human?

Faceless tapping trolls,
contortions of truth,
protecting their bridge of farcical
Narcissism 
Full of loathing
full of detest.

The Silent Tenant

At the foot of the locked oak door
I awake from a slight slumber.
The gargoyles taunts rain
down upon my skeletal frame.

My metropolis envelopes
me in a soothing embrace,
while its minions stare stonily
ahead; terrified I will make their eyes bleed.

A whisper has wandered 
from Government gallows
of a strike bubbling
on the horizon.

As my mind meanders from reality
lines of robots parade the streets;
they queue for metal 
convinced of their decay.

The towering oak door stands ajar;
in a strangers arms
I am finally
admitted.

An Unholy Commute

The cogs of my metropolis
begin to grind,
A sleepy sigh mingles
with human traffic.
An elbow jab in a crowded coffee chain
an armpit to my face underground.

The great oak door illuminates my morning.
Like a rigid beefeater it protects
our faithful establishment,
yet refuses to acknowledge
its leeching tenant.

A Desolate Sanctuary

A solitary clergyman sips
from my bejewelled chalice.

My organ
plays no tune.

I weep streaking my stained
glass eyes

As the tenant silently
says goodbye.

Painted Mannequin

They ironed out your creases 
like a vampire waiting to strike 
your ghostly stare bore into me. 
I heard your voice echo between the worlds; 

All this fuss and tears, what a waste! 
That painted mannequin isn't me. 
Wrap me in a bag, bury me in a field. 
It means nothing to me. 

It wasn't for you. 

A cocktail of memories hung in the air, 
in true family fashion the music blared. 
Laughter eclipsed the tears.
Your Bacardi bottle lay discarded 
gathering dust 
the guest of honour, forever absent. 

I recalled the vicious voices filling the family home 
Fleeing in defiance, I started on my own. 

Upon my return I watched your eyes swell with pride, 
as you wrapped me in your arms. 

Then you left. 

There are no regrets. 
It is just a shame Life remains neglected except in death. 

Smoke Screen

White smoke slithers silently toward the heavens,
while golden rays dance manically upon the purity
of Seraphim wings.

Stolen youth banished into the vaults below
inexcusably drowning
in the hollows of the past.

Young lives debauched and decayed;
yet still the white smoke rises.

Seraphim wings anchored
to their sides. 

Tainted.

An eternal promise to reap revenge on holy hypocrisy 
boils beneath the swamps of humanity.

A divine devotion.
Echoing through the ages.

Birth

Somewhere on Winterborne Road
Paint flaked from walls
Bare feet padded on creaking boards
A terrified woman screamed with relief
Nine months of agony were soon to be over,
Or so she believed.

Thirty six hours late. With a wail and a hic
My spikey hair and moonlike face
Said hello on February the twenty eighth.
Four hours shy of eternal youth.

Walking through rough Thornton Heath
A rickety pram that annoyingly squeaked
exhaustedly lulling me into sleep
Their watery eyes pleaded for relief.

There in the late night cold,My young parents soon became old.