The End of Something

Beneath the window’s bay, in a perfectly

angular square of shade, there slopes the

sunken hollow beside a mound of grassy loam.

And in the space lies her remnants, arched yet

lifeless as the void dictates, an existence

rendered idle by the motion of the blade.

She is consorted in indolence, (just

as in the feats of covetousness)

by her partner lying prone in juxtapose.

They were red hot lovers these two,

joined in a licentious collective, until their

ardor paid heed to the soft brogue of steel.

Its whisper so persuasive, as the

contentions of an adulterous tongue,

beguiling lives along a barbed incline

to meet their end. Fleet, sinuous thrusts,

and their vigorous monotony, soon

curbed the wield of fanciful promise.

Whilst song, their song, diminishes to resonance

through a density of fabric, gallant fleets

of soil bound in time to throttled beats.

From a plunging brink towards the fractured

earth, each altruistic wisp gives itself to the

necessary exploits of reprisal.

Lewis is a professional writer and blogger based in Birmingham, UK. He also has a passion for creative writing, and has featured in magazines throughout the UK, U.S. and Oceania.

A Purpose in the Hollow

Too late to save the seeping life of day,

when moonlight spills in tricks of hoary shine

a rebellion bleeds beneath its rage.

Between the streets glow and the shade it streams,

its motion fleeting as felled slants of light

sweep across the flagstones in relentless chase.

Whilst footfall pounds against the cobbled stone,

and beats the cadence of an anguished song,

its quarry falls before insistent will.

Lain still between the contours of shadows,

where all is hushed but for his laden breath,

he bows beneath the weight of cruel intent.

As hands to fists that bray the lifeless form

shape crimson moulds beneath the silver sun,

and puncture life with thrusts of a pointed blade.

Until bruised and steeped in a blood-stained hue,

they are pressed into pocketful’s of nothing,

restless for the remnants of the day.

Though middle England rests in content sleep,

its children seek a purpose in the hollow;

denied them through the motions of the day.

Though strangers in a small square of being,

they acquiesce to an ambiguous yearn,

to belong beneath the smoulder of a midday sun.

Through a portent of the fractured day,

where blue smoke embers haunt the cerise sky,

slow bleeding colours birth the working hours;

when they must live the dreams of elders,

through the dint of toil and token craft,

and cast time until the setting of the light.

The Whisper of Fingertips

As one beneath the spill of moonlight,
their essence braced against the cold,
as slithered, silver seeping
ignites the twilight’s mould;
and hues the pale
of winters drift,
a darker
shade of
old.
No
words are
spoken in
the moment, no
trace of sound is made;
Instead, his muse slow creeps,
by whisper of fingertips,
each hushed stroke a faithless promise,
a temperate touch to coax her sin.