Images of Fate

21st April, '09

The words have been squeezed out of my tiny, little fate,
expression has left me in the lurch again,
It's only pain, pain and more pain,
that are colouring the walls of time once more.

An ice dome with icicles, shooting upwards like trees,
sticky, slippery cauldrons of gurgling time,
a body almost formed, floating face downwards,
hands stretched out towards the greenish slime.

A war field, with scorched, black trees,
plastered with the skin of a countless men,
roots uprooted, heads in the ground,
fingers scattered, a million times ten.

Purplish grey skies, with muddy contours,
dripping down to earth with the sarcasm of the Gods,
poetry sits waiting in a runny, black hole,
around it sits pain in self-righteous clods.