The Hour Glass
They once lived in a house of refined glass
Tormented by a slurring wind
That kissed and spat and smashed
Harsh, bitter, and pursuing it
Showed its toll.
As the glass received chips,
Then shattered, it long reformed
To sand; there was no sparkle of life
Not a movement or a ripple,
The dance ceased.
A battle was once fought here –
No winner or loser
There was no more distress.
In this sand, that once
resembled a stain of glass
that captured a ray of light
on a reflection of a more composed time
Her presence was sculpted
in his mind’s black, dark cold.
Sick thoughts start to disperse,
that fuels the others,
like regiments carrying lanterns
lighting her every move.
She plays musical notes
that she knows not,
an unseen flute entwined
with infectious scents
egos fuelled by distracted glances
They seek out the note
that takes their crazed, crazed
Grand Canyon brush-stroke thoughts,
painting the night
in Lucifer’s gallery’s were angels
freeze in portraits long lost
to the one’s
that were once blessed.
Wayne Hislop has been published in many Anthology’s of poetry and journals with one poem being used in a University in Ireland and a other in a Library at Scared Hearts Collage India. Wayne is Dyslexic and has had reading and writing problems most of his adult life.