By Christos Floratos
In grainy corridors calling distant lights
Where shadows erect pillars of blight,
The wooden walls beg down upon me,
And here I am left quaking at its fee.
No, it is not that cold snap,
Nor is it that summer’s shimmer,
The houses left tender – just a whisper.
In howls of the past; here they entrap.
Arsonists of hate and weavers of sorrow
They gather like dying moths to flickering toilet lights.
“Isn’t that him?” They whisper and spray,
With their stuttered voice and eyes disarray,
Like Satan is on their door step and all they can do
Is whisper and point at him.
The farmer of salvation dug deep in mud yet
No one utters a word to him.
Neon lights echo a howling gale through the grey jungle
Flashes flash as Utterers utter
“Tell us more.” They demand then hide,
However, they’ve been blinded by their gaze to the blaring sun.
Yet here I am in this humble abode,
Ants follow and sheep’s tune to anode
For you see,
It all came with one simple mist…
Because of those whispers
And those damn spitting lights
It shook me here in this necropolis disintegrating
And all those sheep are going,
And here in the back of the cities I must confess,
There, we’re whispers.
And I followed the shame.
© Christos Floratos 2019
This is one of those ‘death of the author’ poems I alluded too that would come in this collection. I am so interested in what other people think this poem is about, so shoot me a message on my social medias or leave a comment below!
Other poems of the Autumn, That Bastard collection: