Thursday, September 14, 2017

Dead Speak




Dead Speak

Tim Wilkinson


Have you not, yourself once heard
The rustling of the leafs,
In withered heaps, brown dry and spent
Strewn wild upon the ground,
When spring is past, and summer waned
And fall, to winter bows,
As bitter winds that gather round
Do swoop, and sweep, and howl?
Then know my son, tis as I’ve said,
The dead yet speak, and growl


© 2017, Tim Wilkinson

Could it Be



Could it be?

Tim Wilkinson



Could it be, that I’m not me
But someone else instead
Looking up from deep within
A cold and stony well

Could it be, that I’m not he
That squirms within this head
The one who dreams of things unseen
That stir this feeble flesh

Could it be, that all the years
I’ve spent in strangers beds
Was but the glow of dawn on high
Falling on my head

Could it be, that who I am
Can’t answer as to why
Wisps of brittle, crape mache
Must crumble, peal, and die

Could it be, the loves I’ve known
Knew only what I’m not
Holding hands of one accursed
While kissing stone and rock


Could it be, that I’ve become

Rotten Eggs




Rotten Eggs



It’s not until the end of life
That one learns how to live
Nor until ones taken all
Does one grasp how to give
For life is short
With heartaches long
When lonely lines the nest
And rotten eggs that fail to hatch,
Though warmed by mothers breast
May spice the dish when added last
All scrambled with the rest


© 2017, Tim Wilkinson

Singing Sacred Songs





Singing Sacred Songs

Tim Wilkinson

Oh, but sing the songs of losers
Of liars, weirdo’s, jerks
Whatever helps, whatever soothes
Whatever moves your works

For who can say what jukebox shit
May rise to roars and beats
Or penetrate the pinkest flesh
To dine on blood and sweets


 © 2017, Tim Wilkinson

Yon Despair




Yon Despair

Tim Wilkinson

Shrunken hearts that love’s forgot
E’er drink alone, in pensive thought
Gleaning lines from crowded air,
Shouting truths--of yon despair.


© 2017, Tim Wilkinson

The Light of Truth




The Light of Truth

Tim Wilkinson

 Blind men don’t deny the dark
Nor fear the shadows sire
Neither do they shun nor shy
The light of truthful fire

For only those whose eyes have seen
The midnight wraiths retreating
Know that darkness shrouds and veils
The dawn’s illumination

Allowing some to skulk and scheme
 Vile fraudulent predations
To strike and slash and stimulate
The innocent’s damnation

Like predators concealed in gloom
They hunger truths castration
Evading fact, denying guilt
For honors mutilation

Trading faith for ruin and doom
They feed on joys destruction
When suckled by our hesitance


And doubts of truths instruction

They plot each vain seduction
Towards the final insurrection


© 2017, Tim Wilkinson

Pain





Pain

Tim Wilkinson

Without her touch where I would turn
With whom derive delight
When every labored, harried breath
Is sunbeam turned to night

This steadfast friend I bed each night
That fills my every dream
Whose lingered kiss is on my lips
In daybreaks muted scream

Does rouse my weary soul each morn
With torments and with blight
To seal each vain and pointless day
With pities bloodied bite

Oh, that could I walk away
To lead a life of right
Without the weighted chains I bear
Of anger, scorn, and spite

Yet with each sigh and moan I forge
Another trussing link
And with each anguished cry and groan
Stride closer to the brink

Without her touch I’d soon be lost
Each day mourn her caress
As I’ve known none for such a time
Nor one I’ve needed less

For moon and earth, both sun and stars
In time may slow and wain
Yet never shall ‘she I forsake
No not my luscious pain


©, 2017 Tim Wilkinson

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