It’s not a town, Its not a street, It’s a field in which my feet Disappear Everyday, mud. I sit and listen to the lack of noise, Eyes closed and hand gripped in cow muck. What story lies here other than the absence of Disorder? The lazy trees drooping, The sky, sometimes blue, grey, black. No dilemma, trauma, … serenity And then… this illusion; deluded. One solitary speck of black, A feature on this speckled paper, Lands feet away. His eye meets mine, I turn aside. Devious minded, crooked crow. The noise fills my ears, bugs bite my toes, This tranquillity is broken By innocent observance. Blood and violence above, inside my shady tree. Crows and crooks bicker, fight, Pecking, crooning, crying, screams Of instinct, ignorance. Shadows cast upon my eyes, Squinting in need of light, I find myself dodging speeding white streaks of purity. Brutal, pulsing, pounding sex. One dragonfly hammering the next. Dirty squalor, foulness, filth, A worm squirms, caked in muck. Murder, Scandal, Torture, Pain, Fly Slowly spinning, high Above my head. The spider approaches… clumsy… dead. Typecast lost, smile gone, We’ve grown older among these grasses.
It’s not a town, Its not a street, It’s a field in which my feet Disappear Everyday, Love that beginning! And you embrace it with a strong supportive second stanza and then you begin to wander. Yet I love your closing line! Keep at it. This is a better draft than many I've seen here.
Thanks! and yes, you're right; it was the very first draft. I had one of those moments when you just need to get something down on paper without really thinking about it. Sometimes I post poems on here when I know somethings wrong but can't quite work out what it is. I think I'll ditch a lot of the third verse.
