It's Still Life

Under the 500 Spires of Prague

It’s the same dream of 500 golden spires, here
by the fast-flowing waters of Bohemia. Are
you and I just vanished reflections off the
old Charles bridge? Are we the fallen red tulips
that are rolled and floating into damp budded
folds? We stroll the ridge of mortar rot, and
feed stray dogs our bread. This bridge full-blown
of hunger, these men’s boney constitution. Their
eyes wonder at our procession, as a crow swoops
and steals time by scraps. A vanishing star, and
the fast-flowing water of Bohemia dips and dips.
Hear ragged ancient voices going nowhere, their
craggy shadows are old clock hands, gold gloss
across their faces. We’re shallow, a stray step, and
yet we eat our bread and suck pork fat, poses
freed by wine. And St Vitus bells ring out, the
peal of emptiness that rips away our satin.
We hide in this timeless place, from and of
its long pendulum swing. Tick-Tock at their
foundations, and into its poisoned darks.

Peter pitches a golden shovel at us today for dVerse Poets. For details of this poetic form, visit dVerse. The line I chose is: Here are the tulips budded and full-blown their swoops and dips their gloss and poses the satin of their darks from “A Genre Painting” from “Dearly, Vintage” a collection of poems by Margaret Atwood. Those words were used as the final words in each line.   © Misky 2020 Image is from Wikiart.