Larks make love in granite morning
air breathed mist through hulks of
mendacious metal obscuring, blinding
white light making falsehoods of
safe-havens. He lies, lithe back broken,
bleeding inwardly on a deathly
cold and damp choked lifeless gutter.

Larks made love with a blue-black sky
smothered his last gasped breath of
existence. His pain wandered languidly
for brief slow moments, drawn out
by empty loneliness of distance from
young loving hands in his passing.

Larks made love in the clamorous morning
our anxious boy walked from the bosom of
friends to see a friend’s face smeared with
blood from those terrible final minutes.
His friend’s coldness curled up in heated
flame liberating him from a dimming night
to light of heart and loving memory.
Say goodbye, and fare thee well Kadi.

Fear not the great adventure that is life.
That journey will always take us to death
on bitter cold days and damp lonely nights.
Be proud of those seething deep wounds of
your precious heart. They will heal stronger
than the granite chill of morning’s passing.
When larks make love, let your pain fly free.

23rd March 2016

Find me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15

image from:


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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