Fin
Red shadows
hang improbably
on immovable trees
and hardened street,
like butchered hopes;
we soldier on.
Walking to work
you’ll try to solve
the gordian knot
of his entrenched
and inchoate rage,
but lack resolve.
It can’t be helped –
he hates you. End of.
Necromancy
You send him urgent texts
but he no longer tolerates
your soup, solicitude
and homilies on fatherhood:
the man you wanted him
to be is gone;
another fills his shoes.
As above, so below –
before you summon him
reflect on this
then wield your will;
harness the stars
and your inner hell
from its event horizon.
One night when you’re
in bed, he’ll rock up
at the door with a girl
half his age, a wired grin
and a lump of hash
he swears is an Eighth;
asking for some extra cash.
He’s left the engine running
and distorted bass
is waking half the street.
Death has reworked
your beloved. Too late
you recall the warning
not to bring him back.
anyone who tries to short you on… hashish….deserves a necromancers poem……thanks
Haha thanks for that!