Modern Folklorist

The Sperg Box

grinding, clawing
gnashing, moaning
casting English blood and gore
gasping, gaping
drawing finger to the bone
nights are longer
days are shorter
the Cauldron licks at tired ankles
fated fingers weave my dreams
time’s illusion drawing closer
Maja’s veil like crashing tides
transmigration, desolation
echoes of an ancient past
veins like roadmaps
lost in vapour
calling for the dust below
songs and tales I’ve taken back
grow louder, years and months abate
my ears are ringing, forgotten silence
silent screams and deafened ears
forelorn pounding, heartfelt bass
I cannot escape
who shall join me on my journey
as I plump for darker depths
blacker than the darkest star
shining like the golden sun
all that glistens, alchemist’s gold
beaten from pure iron
every starlight passes
unwraps the blanket up above
cutting silence to the bone
asleep, awake, all drawn together
pressured into chasing dawn
seizing dreams like every new year

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One Comment on “Modern Folklorist

  1. Pingback: Slip inside the eye of your mind (don’t look back in linkage – at least for today) | vulture of critique

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