The Coal Brushed Sky


How I long for the vicissitudes of the world above,
For the fever of purpose,
For some glint in the coal brushed sky,
To beg blood.

A listless sorrow, harboured in the lull,
Buries the soul beyond the turn.

Ere – I drank from that silver bowl,
To taste the furious notion,
The senses pressed to an unfathomable receptacle,

How I long for heaven’s revolution,
To set forth my nocturnal guide
For one cloudless hour,
Bathed in sanguine illumination,
Shifting in suffering, breathless hunger.

How I lust for some spark to burn the shadows,
For the passion of direction,
For some prospect in the coal brushed sky,
To urge war.

A vague dream, lodged in the season,
Detached from the flame of celestial truth.

Ere – I surged to that shining light,
Ravenous for the world of swarming flesh,
Baying the language of primitive Earth –
All teeth to the heel of humanity,

Photograph courtesy of Peter Annis