Furious drifts harden thrashing webs
prepared to shred the shallow wasteland -
what foul bolus upsets that neverending beast
to turn from gentle spine
(such millpond creases)
into herds of hissing tendrils?
The backs of flooded cities scream upward
from shelled maelstroms,
hinting to tourists
of seismic tendons beneath the frothy mane.
Surrender a piece of sanity from your molten ego
so that Man might be as calmed
as tides of season.
There is no more mad poison
for sentinels and townsfolk to simmer on;
rabid themes sleep amongst infernal surges
gathering serenity in fresh pockets of sand.
Cowboys and fishermen still seek dread loot
but the sun lures nothing -
only drowned cadavers like eyeless holy relics
howl where nets are cast...
@Steven Francis poems 2010
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