Joseph Hankinson, 6 stycznia 2012
Drunk, in the maddening humidity,
I shall stride, over and over,
Transcending fresh sentiments:
My young heart burning bright.
Passing old houses, new roads,
Lost hedgerows... my eyes become blind
As a strange kind of darkness rolls in.
Once bare yet full, turns full,
Yet empty: as industrial seeds plant
New crops. The cost of fresh life
Never raises the right questions.
Joseph Hankinson, 6 stycznia 2012
The sea: illuminated by
The sun, was a queer shade of gold.
My eyes fought to adjust as, wave
By wave the ship began to fly:
Its hard hull heckling the shoals
Of fish dancing on the wet pave.
The map I lay before me then
Showed patches of land hiding
Amidst pockets of blue. And, once
I saw my aim, I took my pen
And drew a circle surrounding
My island, and sat in silence.
The hands of the clock chose to hide
Behind one another. The hour
Was late, and once busy decks then
Became ghost lands. Like Jekyll to Hyde,
I gathered my things, and turned sour.
The homesick explorer, caught amongst seamen.
Joseph Hankinson, 27 grudnia 2011
Every last sound,
Resonating as if a shout:
I lay impaired, trapped
Within my own dying mind.
For when the waves
Bring down their punishment
And their poisoned justice,
My tired eyes begin to see
What once was lost:
The last post sounds, and
The tide ebbs away,
Leaving sand so raw
It’s startling.
Joseph Hankinson, 27 grudnia 2011
Never has Love been portrayed
As constricting as this.
My shackles tighten,
With each tainted kiss.
Dependance is no virtue
When She won't let go.
This problem of Love;
This craving below:
For change,
For freedom!
But, my heart is tied,
In a marriage of bondage,
To my faithful bride.
I've loved, and prospered,
But never at once.
My calls aren't answered:
Except by silence.
Regulamin | Polityka prywatności
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