Man and Beast
The sickle sun crept motionless,
almost - sickly,
as bird and beast awoke.
Calling to the vast everything
that lay within their eyes,
they did not see.
Through dew-laden lenses,
the blind stumbled.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The fire of dawn echoed a promise
of something else.
Something of the mundane carnival of creation;
vibrant yet false.
Creatures of ignorant ferocity
stumbled from grey stones
to pitch pillars of mockery.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The scarlet simpering of majesty,
flung without care across the morning blue,
bellowed the furnace of day.
The veld was all of life seen,
yet to the eyes of the sane,
crimson insanity.
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Painting Pigeons
Those thoughts that flutter aimlessly in my mind; always there, always in motion - the pigeons in head. A literal understanding of this understanding would present more than enough reason to release these thoughts. Luckily for me, they (figuratively) mould quite easily into ink and thus onto the internet. My poems are the thoughts of a boy/young man and, like most such musings, they often fall short of their potential I would gladly appreciate any tips, corrections and/or motivation. :)
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