Night Sounds

A graveyard beneath the ground.

Night Sounds

 

            Listen:

            birds, crying;

            branches, sighing,

            the clots of black slowly spreading

            the blots of sulphur gently bleeding

            on the tarmac.

 

            Can you hear it?

            Beads of moonlight perch on steel blades--

            and the last laugh, it billows, it fades, but

            below the ground, beneath strings of dirt

            where stone, gravel, bleached bone, flirt

            with silence, there is a cavern,

            a dead cavern where the shadows pool

            ungoverned.

 

            But, do me a favour - and listen

            to the words, spoken to no-one but the monsters in the closet,

            to the sounds of that dripping faucet

            that no-one gets up to wrench silent.

 

            Because that cavern is brimming with silent pleas

            and brushed-off pangs and forgiven deeds

            never forgotten, just 'forgiven'

            out of necessity.

 

            A graveyard of drowned feelings,

            overarching crumbling ceiling,

            a heart shunted into the throat,

            water gushing into the overturned boat,

            each howling train and nightmare-torn gasp,

            to nature's susurrus, that dimly heard rasp,

            overlooked by galaxy-twisted arms,

            night's sail bellied by tossed qualms;

            problems dead and unneeded,

            words heard but unheeded--

 

            and then the flowers die

            to owl's cry.

Author's Note

First proper attempt at poetry - AKA: I am fully aware this is horrendous, but, oh well.