The Crucible and the Can of Worms

… and there it sat, atop a hill on high,

a light, brigand of sultry encounters,

perhaps more than a suited salt of

slanted mayhem, my world a bean,

strung along aside it, but then circling,

soaring inside the lofty of wind lofts,

an albatross, carrion crawlers of peak

and valley hid, the sun piqued above

the piquant paste, a sweet dialect of

magistrates and maniacs, covering

my head I insisted to my guide that

the time had risen, and the birds were

there for us, shoving my hand about

my bag, I groped sinister, but I only

found a rose that a nun gave me one

morning, and then without the grace

of note, a swoop-winged, angry bird

pushed us towards the valley bottom,

and my guide gushed the reddest of

blood, which I slipped in as I stood

to run; moving along the widest plane

I had ever seen, the albatross hovered

above, I heard the wings sonic as I

called for help, but like it was all a

dream or a curse from the heavens,

the bird trailed away, leaving me to

wander alone; my guide dead; I sang

this song to a barroom maiden one

night in spring, but being a baroque

beauty, her swill swollen tongue only

spoke in verbs, so the can of worms

open’d, and a new story wrote itself,

leaving the crucible untouched again.

 

If you like this poem, consider checking out my poetry chapbooks on Amazon. Thanks for reading!

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~ by Shawn M. Young on January 12, 2017.

One Response to “The Crucible and the Can of Worms”

  1. Reblogged this on O LADO ESCURO DA LUA.

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