Embers from footsteps as the souls remember, trembles..
padding, tiptoeing and steps thrown over large gaping holes
like flimsy coats and blankets over man-holes. A role played
by man, yet a man sold. Sell this man's soul, swallowed whole.
List the sellers , some small, the others tall.
Others retire after performing. So go perform. .
Puppet shadows on the wall.
This poem is an answer to you all. .
A polly-gram like a polly-graph , a year spent lying in dirty parrot-soil.
Not long after so-called friends befriend then turn on you once more.
Chewed up and spat out like bird droppings, trample all before.
Aged, like the frozen egg of a dinosaur.
Another sad poetic recoil, in a poetry lab, hands under a table , promises like a gun-retort, withdrawn .
Good will spent before the night is out. Withdraw. Yet the marks remain stained like oil.
Is he a male troll or merely an ingrained boil? to lance? Dancing kindly trying to find kind eyes , rising to meet mind to mind? No, not at all.
Lead down the path then tossed aside , is that enough? No I have more!
Lilly pads under frog spawn. Under the cathedral lights at dawn.
Rose thorns growing under your skin while you snore.
..the sharp fact of not wanting you any more.
by Paul Sinclair