Wayne Hislop

 

The Hour Glass

Mainak’s photography

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

But now

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

Now forgotten.

 

 

The Predators

Mainak’s photography

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.