Heaven Be Proud

I hold the world on my shoulders

My paper spine’s become folded

A steady hand when I hold it

The waves of the oceans

The steady words spoken

The host of the morning

The sadness on my pores and

The gorgeous forgemaster of chords

The storyboard

The pen, the sword

The end of a delicate world

The bend of a pelican’s furl

The pendulum surgical vertigo

Fertile murmurs regurgitating forth

What for do we become born?

Let me strum on these veins

Another chord of varicose

Intercoursing through the vorpal eyes

I see a rusted sun rise, paradise

Hammered into an anvil of clouds

Wearing God like a shroud

Heaven be proud

Of the rippling sound of my hourglass ticking

No rest for the blessing of the wicked

The ichor a liquor of my family at a picnic

Years before heaven went to war

And killed every angel in the sky that never cries

Pick on a mortal your own size

I’ve seen the wilt of summer fern's in an old man’s eyes

This old man will someday surely take everything mine

I suppose this world is sculpted from only

A matter of a time

 

Author's Note

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.