The Death of Poetry.

 A sun rises on a new day

I place a word on a new page

You might think that is predictable

And you would bet a week’s wage

 

What if the sun did not rise?

To your horror and to your surprise

What if I gave up writing?

Who would make you laugh then?

 

For there can be no poetry

If there is no glorious shining sun

Imagine what it would be like

Writing under a black hole would be no fun

 

Things would be close to insanity

As the whole world panics and attacks

That would be the death of poetry

And that would be the death of me

 

You have heard of many horror stories

And you have seen the various remakes

You have seen the same old mish mash

Using the same old silver and wooden stakes

 

There may be a different angle or back story

Maybe filmed in glorious 3D

But these modern twists on an old folklore

Do not do the justice for me

 

Maybe it is time to get to basics

And let us all stop looking for glory

Let us find something from deep within

And let us write one last fantastic ghost story

 

And the coffin awaits for us all

No matter whom we are

Stop playing around with yourself

Get your ideas down on paper

 

Let the pen do all the hard work

Pull the cobwebs from your imagination

Dust off that self-confidence

Write down something original and tantalising

A new form of menace!

 

So when that sun arrives on a new born day

And the words are all written down

Distributed and published work

For when Armageddon comes to town

 

You can say with your dying breath

That someone somewhere read your story

It did not make you a millionaire

Because you were never looking for glory

 

The best payment for the storyteller

Is to see fear in the audience’s eyes

All types of listeners listening vehemently

With the lust of the upcoming surprise

 

All of these centuries that have passed

As we stand on a bridge trapped in time

Watching as years slips under our feet

Trying to keep our lives in line

 

Constantly learning

Burning to be told

A fantasy of dimensions

We find intoxicating

Inebriating

Simulating our minds

 

To plough through monotonous

Insidious lives

Tediously wanting to be told

Through a story or poetry

That life can be marvellous

The sun will always shine

Writing will always be mine

 

To wrestle with and toil through

Grinding out another verse

Labouring at my art each and every day

Trying to make my words read

By more inquisitive people

Who are searching for someone

 

Some artist that will stimulate

Wake up the primal parts of our minds

Dragging them through another day

Warmth from the sun and poetry

 

Breathing life into ancient woes

Narrating the past and fixing the future

Poetry cannot fail in this modern age

It is too big of a monster to be conquered

 

It lives underground and is hard to find

But until the pulse remains in her

Then the pulse when remain in me

There could never be the death of poetry,

Meaning there could be no death of me!

Cemetery.

 A wanderer on a long road

Maybe heading out of hell

He packed his lifelong belongs

In the smallest of rucksacks

 

Travelling light

Drifting through the night

As the road stretches imaginably

Into the horizon

 

Our wanderer should feel defeated

The shoes are falling to pieces

Blisters burning under his feet

Since what our drifter has come from

 

Means he can never retreat

Keep on moving

Seasons are changing

Fleeing from that place

 

Can’t hide in a cemetery

If Death is waiting there

Ominously and impatiently

It is hard to see the stars

When there is only darkness

Everywhere

 

Inside and outside

The monsters and the madness

No time to cry

Tears are a waste of much needed liquids

 

Onwards and upwards

Cannot turn back now

Looking forward

The wind between his teeth

 

Pain in various places

Forgotten where

Drifting like the seeds in spring

Seems like nowhere

 

Cannot rest

Cannot hide

This road is my only companion

Cannot stop

Cannot wait

 

Imagination is the only way forward

It disguises what is real

Constantly fine tuning the vision

The wanderer sees before him

 

Autocorrecting

Resurrecting old dreams

As he walks through the darkness and cold

He imagines autumn colours and warmth

 

Golden fields of corn

Dancing in the autumn winds

His concentration lets him down

As darkness waves at him

 

The last thing he wants to see

Is another damn cemetery

A century of entrapment

Rotting away the years

 

No interaction with the flower layers

As if they did not care

In his wild imagination

Our drifter pretended to be dead

 

Logic seems to be missing from

This wanderer’s lifeless head

How can he not remember

Being killed on that dreadful day

 

Falling under the wheels of the horse drawn carriage

Nobody deserves to die

In such a cruel and violent way

 

He was always a drifter

Even when he had life in his veins

He could never remember his family

His was an orphan from a young age

 

In his first twenty years on this earth

He drifted from place to place

He always found an escape

A means to survive

 

Hunger tore at him

An empty vessel forgotten by society

Buried without fanfare

Nobody really cared

 

Tormented and tortured in death

Persecuted to have

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Darren Hobson
Lektorat: Darren Hobson
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.11.2015
ISBN: 978-3-7396-2373-3

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Widmung:
This collection is dedicated as always to my muse and our two demonic cats, it also dedicated to Dino, especially the poem The Passing, also dedicated to all the victims of crime, people taken away from this world too soon, from brutal acts of war and murder.