Blood-Red Skies



Blue are the eyes staring through the darkness

of deep isolation circling a leafless tree of wisdom.

Dry are the grey bones of lovers lost on this barren

Earth scorched by a burning sun with naked heat but

tepid is the water I find surrounding my troubled skin.

Cold is the welcome by the hearth of your hoar house,

your stone walls dripping red with the sweat of my disdain,

the disdain you pile upon me like the fetid remains of

respect under a tonne of faeces poured liberally over life.

Fertile green is the meadow I wander, far away from here,

towards the high mountains and deep rifts of longing.

Empty is the luggage I haul through this land of skulls,

of yellow bones, of black socket-less eyes, of lipless lies

of grey flies crying crocodile tears of shining quick silver.

Clear is the end I near, but never reach, under blood-red skies.



Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15 or



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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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