Was that monsieur Death I felt around my collar?
Attempting to sneak up behind the grease and spit
of the wineless glass?
Was that thief Death I saw?
Herr Black, skulking in the wings
waiting to toss me into raven pits.
A dark fist swirling like a bee
in hope for honey marrow in my mucas brain,
as I stumble to doors of tranquility on my wet lips.
Lead on skull man,
to bats and lunar doors lead on...
@ Steven Francis poems 2011
Slip the noose of dying and madness for a time and share some observations with Welsh poet Steven Francis in this, his 5th collection of poetry.
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