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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4134 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Squall Douglas Storey I wandered once down a path Where sod had grown above a road Dusty houses crushed from falling Story long forgotten, but often told In terms so green, this emerald scene The yellow footfall thus could never Halt the dream from which it came Where men of straw are very clever Where water’s poison against flesh green Melts a face not understood But for the poppies in the wood And there were poppies in the wood. Then I came into the field, Flowers, colors gold and red, Orange. Imagine, every hue Of purple, golden, green and blue So many that I turned and fled Into the wood and hid in dark Corners there under the shade Near a rusted, withered axe I sat And sobbed until my fear was shun Looked to the field the glint of tears: How could I pick just one? How could I pick just one? Left I looked into the grass Where the axe had upon a hand Only gloves with metal hewn The axe then rose, it struck me thus Across my back too fast too soon. Flowers left, in blue and red Only blossoms full of thorns A silver man, red eyes and horns A mark or two, a minor scar I worshipped him in black and steel I never dreamt I’d go this far I never dreamt I’d go this far We’d talk a while, but begat A dream ensconced of reds and greens And talking makes the mind forget Through the tears where I winced I realized was one of many, That flowers too grow in the dark That men of steel are men with heart And even though that skin is hard Deflects an arrow, a piercing dart The bricks that blossoms hid asunder Still are ready to fall apart And bricks indeed do fall apart. The annealed king of axe and flower Stood astride the field and road Tears flowing down onto his arms Into the bed of flowers and dirt He picked more cuttings than he should For stems don’t cut but with tender care And thorns in flowers cause bitter eyes That tear and flow from everywhere Thereupon his rust did halt His thrashing crushing bleeding axe And somehow it was all my fault. And somehow it was all my fault. Take the brick into your hand. Uproot its mortar. The dirt descends. Turn it, yellow has flown the gold Sought, but paint, flaking, old Falling. Thus the straps you hide In the drawer, wet and sticky Used many times on many others, Sometimes wanton, but often picky. What pain forsaken, what fondness wrought What costume should he wear? Could he bear the heart he sought? I doubt he knew the heart he sought. The eye then wandered from his sight Onto the crushed and broken brick. Astonished, he then takes his life From his chest, and rips apart The gifted ticking clicking heart. Then walks away, across the gap Where the brick, once was bright His back to me, into the dream. Alone, his steps aloof, alight A tattered tapping tiny sound Hanging off his old tin boot. A strap to which a hand was bound An answer which cannot be found. |
