Upon the Anvil



Upon the anvil of a rood awakening in the harsh

dark of a day struggling to rise from its knees,

the cold with a sharpness like whetted steel

splices the sinews of every muscle and fibre

till your soul screams forgiveness for the sins

of its mortal self and that decaying shell

trapping it to Earthly pleasures, cries in vain

for the best and worst in all experience

of life spent in absent wonder of existence

for the soul knows not what sea to traverse,

what mountain to climb, numbed is she

by the ever lasting frigidity of normality

that passes through like a silent vessel

beyond the harbour wall on paper-smooth

water, calling as sirens call their lovers, as bells

call their sheep, to bring home all the solemn,

the voiceless to an Alter of powerless exploitation.



Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15


Picture Credit: http://fineartamerica.com/images/eventlogos/artist-8135-8579-img_2109.jpg


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 Niume.com.
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