Creativity’s welling up again after a few days of just throwing random, arid words on the paper. Today’s poem’s turned out a little better, I think. It’s a bit weird, structure-wise and tone-wise, but I wanted it to have a weird feel to it.
She was like a fruitful soil that imbibed the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them forth again to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but then she was often dark and rugged as that soil, raked up, and new sown with unseen seed.
~ Mary Shelly, “The Last Man”
It has been chasing her all around:
An army of prophets with long, dry faces,
An army of apocalyptic angels, the sort
That unfold their many pairs of wings
And impale sinners, and eat unbaptised children
Alive. It has been chasing her all over
The playground – her feet are numb,
Her legs are stiff from running,
Her lips are dry from thirst and unspoken fear.
These visions, they want her soul,
Her tender child’s soul, so juicy,
So filled with golden fish, the wish-fulfilling
Kind, fish-phantoms that sing in undertones,
Discernible only to children and dying people.
Run and hide,
The world is wide,
Give it a whirl.