THREE VERSES AND THEN... NOTHING.

THERE IS NOTHING

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_{Photo by Louis Blythe on Unsplash.}

There are no dead villains here
Or long lived heroes;
Just dead men and
Men trying to live.

There are no kings here
Or serfs;
Just men waiting for bread,
Praying for help,
Dying where they stand.

There is no salvation here
Or restitution;
Just death and the smell of rot
And decay,
Just the lines of old tears
And the sting of new ones.

There are no friends here
Or enemies;
Just rats striving to survive,
Struggling to be noticed,
Praying to be saved.

There is no heaven here
Or hell;
Just this earth,
This ball of dust and water,
Of harsh winds and tempestuous storms,
Of blue eye fishes
And rosy scented flowers.

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THE SUN, HE DIED

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_{Photo by Tim Foster on Unsplash.}

They are taking the sun,
They are wrapping it in a shroud,
They are leaving a hole,
A wound in the surface of the sky.

It bleeds, this wound,
This black hole bereft of light,
Of warmth, of song.
Its jagged edges flap, empty,
Lonely in the broken sky.

They are pouring incense,
They are laying flowers,
They are mourning dirges
From stifled tongues.
They are burying the sun.
Darkness has come.

Will you remember
How he made you feel?
Will you remember his touch,
His kiss on your neck,
His sparkle on the playful stream,
His romance with the moon?
Will you remember?

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THE MAIDENS' DANCE

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_{Photo by John Silliman on Unsplash.}

The moon beams on the earth,
The maidens standing still,
Staring at the empty space,
Ringed with flowers and men.
They ponder their fates,
They wonder at their dreams
And they hold on to their truth,
As the earth pauses and scents
The blades of the freshly cut grass.

The drummer caresses his drum
And the leather skin sighs,
Ripples in anticipation.
Somewhere, in the darkness,
A sad flute hesitates into being,
Becomes a tune and whispers
Among the tree tops.
The haunting melody tinkles
The cowries shackled to hesitant ankles
And several feet caress the naked earth.

The drummer lets his hands go,
And as it walks on the surface of the dream,
Music is born.
At first it teases, grips and squeezes,
Then grabs a hold, throttles and chokes,
And the maidens, they dance.

Oh nubile feet!
Shiny with palm oil,
Soft with the sweetness of the rains,
Fat with the ripeness of the moon,
Beautiful with the eyes of the darkness.
Oh jigida beads! Jingling
To beats older than man,
To music lost between here and there;
Sacred, yet venal;
Pure, yet sweet as sin.
Gods! The maidens,
They dance and every man
Swears the gods, they came
To witness the forbidden sight.

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AN END OF SORTS

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_{Hey folks, this is Oskilo's blog and he would love to read your suggestions on how to make this blog better serve you. He would like to know what you, his reader, think of the content so do not forget to leave a comment; you just might have something he needs.}

Peace

©warpedpoetic, 2018.

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art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics