Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Saccharin Gaze

This poem was an entry into a poetry contest. I went with a more appocalyptic feel rather than using my traditional bubbly and cheerful pop-language. I felt like a change of tone and style. For those keen on poetry may detect an influence from T.S. Eliot and Edgar Alan Poe.

I wrote this one as a series of quatrains. However, due to the way Blog formats it, some lines may jump.

Tristan Vick

Saccharin Gaze

Amongst the bleak backdrop of a black and crimson sky
When the last shriveled, insipid apple dangles against empty
Ash, and the only juices left inside are of corruption and tyranny
And shattering under a lecherous hate; crumbles the last Emerald city

A place where crows and scavengers avoid the rotting sickness with contempt
Their bony clawed feet too timorous to touch the stained earth
They peer down from perches of steel chain link and cement
Starving beady blotches of black, glossy as oil, waiting for the hour of rebirth

Macabre zombies, a remembrance of humanity lurk around
Each landscape as desolate as the last with but one exception
A tower of muddy copper once of gold, standing erect and sound
The last symbol of an empire; a slowly winding down machination

So tolls the clock tower at this high hour
Hands stroke the smoldering cracks of a face so weathered
Yet no ghostly soul dare look up, or gaze upon such a tower
Its cruel dominance, a mechanical deity, abhorred

Sulfur and suffering replace mankind’s dream
And the surrogate lord of time overseas with steady decay
The desolate trees raped of their silvery stream
As the bell sounds the last vestige of beauty; splintered, and lost in disarray

Once here laid the foundation of a great Paradise
Now forlorn with only the rubble of a great nation trodden
A Wasteland set down in the wake of caprice
Felicity the faithless has run away, and is undone.

Left in the charcoal grey culm, shimmering against monochrome sunsets
Only a memory of that pristine palace and its populace now a ravished whore
Pewter statues of forgotten deities cry tears of blood over that once great subset;
The dry winds pause for a distant voice, and the Raven squawks, “Nevermore.”

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