Calm are the waters of a slowly strummed guitar.

A voice echoing manna from heights unseen soars

beneath clouds leaden with sorrow.

I bring forward hope of other times swirling

on eddies of tide swell pulling my vessel further,

further away to the depths of a wine-dark future.

Blind are the deaf eyes of passive disbelief.

Taut are the fists the fight back.

Bitter are the tears of rain drenched in heartbreak

from failure and unknowing defeat. Hard is the heart

that rises on phoenix feathers from the ashtray of

this cursed earth.

Slow rolls the boat upon the wave of a rhythmic

pulse of angelic voices spinning tales hidden in

siren song. Damned are those hands that

feel no pleasure, the minds that see neither hearth,

nor hope, but rest among the foliage dropped

by another woman’s labour.

Open are the eyes that feel the lithe life

beyond the rood, and forgotten.


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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