08-14-2024, 02:22 AM
So I rewrote this poem after the criticism, still not too sure about the ending though. Waddayathink? Any better? Or much worse...
The Animal.
The Animal
looked seawards
at the clouds,
smeared with
grey and mauve
that massed at the horizon
like exhausted armies
defeated by the sun
The Animal
stirred and sieved
and cupped a thousand
grains in its animal hand,
grains that once were mountains,
grains that once were stone
grains now the
colour of shellac,
of rag, of bone
The Animal
rose and walked
the path it had
made its own, towards
the abandoned city,
a flock of splinters
flushed by its passing
flew up and
shattered in a cry
of russet and gold
The Animal
closed and barred
against the glow
lay down and stretched
its skin, still tattooed
by the last embers of the light.
Clasping a ring
of twisted copper and gold
it shut its eyes
against the night.
The Animal.
The Animal
looked seawards
at the clouds,
smeared with
grey and mauve
that massed at the horizon
like exhausted armies
defeated by the sun
The Animal
stirred and sieved
and cupped a thousand
grains in its animal hand,
grains that once were mountains,
grains that once were stone
grains now the
colour of shellac,
of rag, of bone
The Animal
rose and walked
the path it had
made its own, towards
the abandoned city,
a flock of splinters
flushed by its passing
flew up and
shattered in a cry
of russet and gold
The Animal
closed and barred
against the glow
lay down and stretched
its skin, still tattooed
by the last embers of the light.
Clasping a ring
of twisted copper and gold
it shut its eyes
against the night.