Creative Writing, OldVenue

The Silent Hills

From this furore of madness
I will run to the silent hills
Where the calm meadow birds
Shall bring quiet news
Of the storm
In caves of remote joy
I will be sitting there
Pecking at the bones of a pigeon wing
Until night
When I shall bathe in the frosty remnants
Of the spring
Reading stories from the sand
And telling tales to the walls
The soft wind carrying the words away
Until they settle like fallen leaves
In no order
In the summers that passed
Where the words snaked the cave door
Like vines
The natives sent accidental prayers
That have long since been answered.

But the birds will continue to come
With infrequent warnings
Of the storm

18/10/2012

About Author

tomking



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