Monkish, he is a monkey starving
in the limbs of a barren tree
watching the ape community thrive
on lush jungle flora
unwilling, unable to join them
surviving by consuming vermin
crawling through the skin of his brain
There’s a tin man howling
whose body is a whistle stop
where blackbirds rest and cackle
dance across his stiff arms
make sport of his scarecrow appearance
He scatters seeds on the ground
to get them off him
A continuum of negativity
has swallowed his universe
beginning with naked parents
and the poor rags of their death
His lady’s kisses have been taken
carried away in strongboxes
offered free to strangers
Struggling to find peace
running bare-skinned through snowfields
his spirit howls out to the gods
seeking confirmation of destiny
its voice singing a litany
handed down from the cradleboard
in chains, the slave camp of his being
If not for the glad-song of his children
he might swallow the carpet nails of life
sing a rasping, gushing blood-song
allow himself the strength and release of weakness
In their innocence, they sustain him
demand with the purity of their love
that he stand, diminished, care for them as much as he is able
She met him in a lightning storm
captured, ran away with his heart
Years grind our dearest dreams to dust
clouds that confuse and confound us
A poor lover, he struggles desperately
to recapture what were, perhaps, only thoughts
of a blind man who believed for a moment he could see
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
in the limbs of a barren tree
watching the ape community thrive
on lush jungle flora
unwilling, unable to join them
surviving by consuming vermin
crawling through the skin of his brain
There’s a tin man howling
whose body is a whistle stop
where blackbirds rest and cackle
dance across his stiff arms
make sport of his scarecrow appearance
He scatters seeds on the ground
to get them off him
A continuum of negativity
has swallowed his universe
beginning with naked parents
and the poor rags of their death
His lady’s kisses have been taken
carried away in strongboxes
offered free to strangers
Struggling to find peace
running bare-skinned through snowfields
his spirit howls out to the gods
seeking confirmation of destiny
its voice singing a litany
handed down from the cradleboard
in chains, the slave camp of his being
If not for the glad-song of his children
he might swallow the carpet nails of life
sing a rasping, gushing blood-song
allow himself the strength and release of weakness
In their innocence, they sustain him
demand with the purity of their love
that he stand, diminished, care for them as much as he is able
She met him in a lightning storm
captured, ran away with his heart
Years grind our dearest dreams to dust
clouds that confuse and confound us
A poor lover, he struggles desperately
to recapture what were, perhaps, only thoughts
of a blind man who believed for a moment he could see
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
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