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September 26, 2022

A Cold Crimson Mist

By Ken Allan Dronsfield

A Cold Crimson Mist

In a mystical graveyard fog primordial swamps weep
the Moon devours icy stars
clouded pastel hues arrive.

traversing into the universe vagabonds of a dark night
we desire tomorrow's pain
upon a visceral dream state.

a comet's tail stings the soul be monarch or revolutionary
anarchist or fallen sovereign
inhaling a cold crimson mist.

whispers in a turquoise haze hatred fears the homestead
floating in a prism of stains
piety carries a cross of fury.

as I wake with a sudden jolt, a lost queried fantasy,
cold lifeless strangled soul,
a hard grasp in the marrow.

Seething deep underground, of crispy labored breaths
buried alive it now seems,
into a vessel of deathly silence.

Life bequeaths a venom, heartless emasculated decree.
Within that cold crimson mist
Satan, from below, calls to me
yes, for I was hated in my day,
but now everybody loves me.






Article © Ken Allan Dronsfield. All rights reserved.
Published on 2017-11-27
Image(s) are public domain.
1 Reader Comments
Ken Allan Dronsfield
11/27/2017
04:55:26 PM
My thanks for including my poem! Love the site....such awesome reading!
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