Pilgrims Progress

He longs to be Ted Hughes.

I think he thinks he sang

the blues to me once

in words dripping in bleeding ink

designed to shock,

to make me think of life

and death.

To make me recoil in fear

that all these disappointments

might just end in tears and

so many wasted hearts.

But all he really wishes for is fame

or to be infamous for a moment,

he never thinks to take the blame

for Sylvia's death.

Publish me and be damned

he cries, falling into his own void,

I never planned any of this,

he whines as time holds him

to account.

And the edges slip

from darker doors,

a simple blip in a universal space,

where tortured souls

trade words and deeds

trying to replace truth

with false hope.

Meanwhile here on earth

meaning has none

as it fights for breath

amid the grasping, cloying

insanity,

of a pilgrim

on a wasted path.

 

06/04/19

Author's Note

Reviews

[Pure Evil]

Wow, an excellent example of what I strive for, a poem that grabs the reader and forces them to continue. Excellent job on this

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Thank you so much PE.