Poem of the Day -Sore Song Tense

Sore Song Tense


Pot thrown in blistering, crackling time

Closed in sweet smelling harmony

Touched by passion; fashioned in iron cast extremes


Grieving as loss and deception

Split the bread drop the water

Like vicious tongues bleating

Reading vacuous tones into well meaning chapel lead scribbling

Left by the child beating waster

Who rang bells for the living

Rotting from the inside


Gather combs and brushes to preen the sentinel self

A real driving substance

A glance in the mist flowing forth from frozen fiction

Gentle breezes teasing the levelling treasure.


Bowled over by the caterwauling syndrome

We clasp our middle to comfort the torn child

Whipped by brutes and cradled by champions

The wind chills the bones

At least we die


February 8th 2017

Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright

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