The Grinder’s Fleshy Dregs

We got Old and forgot the Light

that shone Golden Youth in Our eyes.

It would always linger, burned right

into Our Souls.

The years passed and the tunnel narrowed,

forcing out last, desperate gasps.

Life pushing, forever extruding,

Our malleable forms through Mesh

Filters. Clogged with flotsam and jetsam,

Trapped Hopes and Dreams.

Wastrel lives, Hollowed eyes,

of those who lost Everything.

Imagine My surprise, when a passed Portal,

Showed me the Lives,

Outside the Tube, before The Grind,

Fluttering by, they’d arrived.

Rockwell’s Tribe painted the Walls,

Cave murals of honest things,

They had seen what we Need,

Need? Need… to just be.

The Portal, remembered and cracked,

pushed easily out into the Black,

places where Your scales glinted,

Lonely Siren, calling back.

Who would’ve guessed that Norman’s

vision, included the Stygian depths,

and Places surrounding,

The Grinder’s fleshy dregs.

© All rights reserved, 2016.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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