The Horrors of 2018

Lockjaw Scream

Warning for bugs, this poem is meant to have a melancholy undertone.

[RMT]

Far in the depths
of a disordered ravine,
there laid a meadow
harmonic and green.

Glistening below the rocks
endearing a single hornbeam,
though the charm with no luck
venturing in, a flooding fall
flowers swallowed whole,
water's cover like a shawl.

Husks of spiders dripping,
roaming sod of millipedes.
Conquered branches soaked;
no beauty of it is retrieved.

The water became a "sky,"
and the meadow now
a forgotten kelp cove
with snail shells empty
scallops roaming about
the dead lupine grove.

Their drowning screams cease,
what results is a mere memory.

It will never grow back.
If memories do not make it
amnesia shall numb
the flow of mind.

The withering stems,
the deafening weeps,
the calloused fingers,
of every now-corpse that
cared day and night, starved
all to nurture the fields.

Efforts wasted, their graves
diminished and seeping of
the stories an old gardener
would've passed for generations
hadn't the deluge extinguished
the bloodlines moving forward.

Beneath waves of dread,
the remnants of a meadow
lurk in the coral structures
serving as a lone memorial.

So, this is where the trail
antelopes prance their way
and dark grackles flutter
comes to a somber end.