The Arch of Iris.
The garden wilderness a bastion of bending temperance
Is blown by angry tempests
The outrage of the gusts blows out towards the Irish Sea
...towards the rifts of Africa and on to Galilee
The indoor mind begins to roam
The Internet tugs on
...extracting small half truths put out in ignorance
And ignorance is never innocent
It bleeds a savage blood.
A brutal sanguine fluid drains from bestial Bishops
From randy Rulers ..sexists bards ... bigots.. diehard zealots ..rascals
And that common thief..the banking chief.
So many fine and well placed Emperors protest...
But are they wearing clothes ?
My mood is liverish
The spiders fidget all day long... they are afraid of me
Strong passions rise as timeless energies
They cannot be controlled
Weak passions can be harnessed...but not the bold
And soaring type..they do not toe the line.
And we may only fly as high
As our own wings will take us.
Outside the solitary tree grows strong.
Within.. the day is long and cold bites in
And even though there is a weariness about me
The guilt against the laziness ..will win.
When night does fall ..and finally...
And morpheus steals my waking thoughts
I am as Iris arched above myself in sleep
And in that other parallel are horrid hounds chained up in Portugal
Within this hellish place they’re locked into the madness
Of the syndicate
To growl and howl ..white fangs of desperation
But I wake me up ..before they savage me..
I lie and wonder what is real and what is not.
Kristine Byrne
19th sept. 2013