I am not flesh in marble adorning renaissance halls the sculpted perfection of bright art on warm sun dappled walls but built upon dark fractured bricks moss stained mortar in-between blood red in shadowed corners no beauty in it seen.
this mind allows no clarity troubles hide beyond the light I see the world in abstract hues a harvest moon obscured by night uncertainty moves as a cloud across skies that were once clear and truths that shone once like the stars burn away as do the years, thus unsophisticated rhymes become as journal to the lost, the memories and once beliefs these years of waning moons have cost.
The poet was a Potter I have just found out my grandmother as well was just so nee’d I know of course there were a lot of them about but all my genealogy sits undiscovered in the shade, though perhaps there’s some connection there behind the soot and time and grime lost in the streets that are no more which feature in our rhymes.
I feel the weathered darkness come cold and without succour born from its rain I cannot run and any hope is from me torn by winds that blow of deep despair and in a hail of hopelessness at body and of mind it tears to leave the soul with emptiness
the little birds that gladden hearts have from my garden all departed, yet like sunshine follows rain their sweet songs will I hear again, for nothing ends when darkness calls especially beauty most of all.