Broken Hands and Bottled Moonlight—- by Henry C Smith
Time turned into lies
As the belly pop of their greed
Combusted simple symbols
Into swollen leaden dreams.
Now the muse is drowning as
The city dance of alley cats consumes us,
It’s flames fed by avarice and lust.
This is the age of cold grey burning,
The age of paper churning, tribes collapsing
And men slapped flat like broken hands.
We are the soldiers in the belly of the blood pit,
The grid-racked soul hungry on the march
Beaten for bread rolls whilst searching for failure.
But soon their golden towers will fall like ashen stakes
And the silence which has always hung like bottled moonlight
Will fold back their swarming to an ancient fecund peace.