Decrepit

A collection of structured poem experiments.

The quiet blend of dust and silence falls;
A tick of clock chatters above the tock
And click of footsteps gaining every one
Second that crumbles away heavily.
It is the decrepit folding of land,
Which cries its painted gloss down to nothing,
Rubble that smoulders in its lack of care.
Here is a broken home left ‘lone to bleed.
Stops in its place, that fledgling death begins
To christen mortality as more hope;
In better loss is grown a difference,
In that hidden sound rises completion.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed