Stagnant Cove [Final]
Solid carcass; a gleaming splash of paint,
A spine laid on wavering lands,
And a gap in between.
The moon, fair, ambles out, and the tide splashes in,
The owls hoot; the fishes sing their own song,
And the eyes look out into the darkness,
Dreams laid within; hopes kindling with fires and wood.
The bugle sounds its cadence throughout,
While the grains are caught and swallowed,
Light is absorbed by the fluid,
And the sounds are echoed by the cool, mid-winter’s air.
Beneath the rippling soil,
Lies a hole dark and deep,
In which the old are encompassed.
In which the new are invading, bit by bit,
Ignoring the cries of the helpless, the poor.
In that hole lies a movement, bold and utmost,
That moves the hills from their places,
And makes the paintings on the caverns,
Waver from that very word.
A feeling, emotion, decision is felt, taken,
It coursed through the nerves and veins,
And was shown in those stone-blooded windows.
Ah! the cries were stolen, turned into whimpers,
That etched their mark in the pages of history.
The sentiment had long been rebutted of,
The values had long been thrown away,
The logic had long been ridiculed of,
The words of wisdom had long been ignored.
The wise ages were now in the past,
An era of the kings was now in curtail.
Era was now born anew,
Now, although minds often do believe,
The race progresses still,
It still does injustice to the cove,
To merely describe its inhabitants as stagnant.