The Poetry Corner

The World Of Dying Love

By Paul Cameron Brown

The long finger of blackness is holding its head for us. Dingy bue is its shade, comatose in movement, hazarding a slow swiftness, it inches toward us. Relief comes fitfully. The dragon alone, an upstart crowned with drunken spending, has horse colours as ribbons with his eyes. It cradles a breast of trembling bone. Misercorde, Misercorde. I dreamt I saw skeletal slackness dangling; the poverty of touch is a casket with love in rumbling sockets. Craziness is the passion of the engulfed, dribbling pleasantly. Presentations extended beyond and into themselves. Slackness schemes with invalid awareness in a brothel of hope.