The wailing man of blinded stick, clatters the alley, scratches the brick,
Mumbling his mumbled prayers.
With black of sight and worries plight,
Alone with beaded prayers.
Though he walks through shadows of evil, in this alley he fears but none.
In his valley the evil do rally and darkness has already won.
No need for sealed or squint the eyes, he looks already to darkened skies,
And black is their oiled tone.
And with wetted lips he recites the fumbling of his youth,
Before the black fading, the longing of greyest tooth.
When all the trees were split and wails did shake the Pidgeon roof,
And cooed the neighbour’s calls.
When all the summers were raging lit, between the duvets where budding trees spilt,
And spilled their altered wine.
With fumbled fingers he peeled the bark, to taste the buds in flashing dark,
And rose his breaking morn.
Now in the dark of always night, since clouds closed to greyest the sight,
He sticks the forward slab.
Only plagued by one last sight, in oiled dark of constant night,
The sight of his fleeing love.
She did get wise to distance cries and flight she did but take,
Now on floor with wetted knees, her coo falls from distance trees.
How he longs to make it right, alone he wanders in always night.
Her love, a distant dream.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.