Will you consider a rare diversion from the formal for me.
A Progress In Work
There are sinews everywhere
of umbilical despair
Tattooed souls of ingrained chasms.
Picking through the carcasses
in the doll's graveyard.
On spindly legs of porcelain
they tip-toe through the plastic cadavers
Here they gather, amass and share
With but one pure teardropp as a looking glass,
they scan and search in turn.
O'er these trenches of perpetual twilight
a peahen waddles, unperturbed.
Its presence, no distraction
in the realms of the disturbed.
Seeking out vibrations
Unable to trust their ears
But these constant, sapping, babies' cries
are invoked from epochs yet to come.
I wish them all good luck,
Or at least
A shorter search than mine.