He lurched,
crow-scared, craw-catch
heaving and choking
unable to form words
His puritan-starched hands
grasp for a root of truth
to fight some sucking current
Tinderbox lit and howling,
the augur card sprang
with bear trap teeth staked to rumour
the reader faded, and slipped away
Into ice,
littering a humming depiction
of groaning gallows and defiled deformity
He staggers towards a vision,
stained as apple blossom in trodden snow,
cold enough to stop a heart
I am only what you think I might be
Drab-dressed in mourning, dour and rot
Stiff, complaining, bone-shaken,
taken time - not for giving back
or re-toothing...
...In some dusty, abandoned, glade
foul and forgotten,
as the graves of generations lost
I am but your witness
witless and confused
A wambling nonesuch
unpitied yet crucial
to ease your suffering.
I am the minister of verses
who can bless souls and blast damnation…
But I go unheeded
Alex Oliver 23.02.24