Issue 11.2 Spring 2016

11.2 cover image

 

 

Pining

 

Alex Stanton

 

 

Pining And every day a pining day

The laurel trees are cut

That which remains is languishing

The evergreens are surrounded by rot

I shan’t go into the woods today

I do not claim the pines

The blossoms which bore my wishes are dead

That stinking mulch was mine It’s not a beauty in traditional sense

That one would venture to see

Growing so tall in such dark places

Such scant sunlight to succor thee

But that’s the manna of the pines

Mourning light and acid rain

Thorny undertones and secret hearts

Phrases which tear down and then sustain

I dreamt I saw my laurel trees

Whose fruitful lives had been abridged

Severed by that jealous one

She never took kindly to legend In place of my blossoms, pines sprung awake

Holding sanguinary grip on my hallowed ground

Lamentations echo round the dark wardens

Mixing both keeling and pleasure sounds

For I know what was there and I see what is now

I was helpless as my garden was drowned

As the putrid earth breathes out such fell flora

I resign my fight, listlessly lay back ignore it

Bereft of love, left in desolation

Pining is my new occupation

 

 

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