Friday, 29 November 2013


The night air is so tender as it gently soothes my porous skin,
Away from the mounting intensity, the chaos, and the din
Of the life I was blessed to have been sold.
I’m running away, I’m running north- or south, I’m running in-
Into the beautiful raindrops of gold.

I burst into blistering oblivion, opening my eyes
I see nothing but an aurous hue, embracing the dark, night skies.
God! I feel exceedingly fragile- old,
When I hear the screams of youth- infancy- those dull, deafening cries
Tearing through the searing raindrops of gold.

As I proceed up the blackened, charred steps of severely scorched oak
I feel my lungs begin to fill, to falter, as I start to choke.
I enter a room embellished with mould,
And there I see him in his crib, as clear as night, as clear as smoke,
The infant crying, sad raindrops of gold.

This is what must happen, I tell myself, this is what has to be,
Let my youth be engrossed by enkindled gold, so my soul can be free.
So the infant’s cries dissolved into the crackle whilst I did flee,
I did not fly away, nor did I bend, I did not stay to scold,
I simply ran; North? South? No! I ran into the raindrops of gold. 

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