tired

Callum Featherstone

Shell shock

My sword, my shield, are heavy now,

the battles rage, my neck feels bowed.

Once more;

my head’s above the parapet,

princely darkness; devil silhouette.

Rancour,

blood and fire, steel and death,

cling to the air; grasping breath.

Encore,

there is no time for plaudits’ sorrow;

every ‘moment’ had – scorned by tomorrow.

This suit of armour wears a chink,

whenever the owner bears to think,

deeply;

in ocean beds; discomfort lurking,

from the pearl of wisdom; I’m undeserving .

Discreetly,

these battled wits within my mind,

devise painfulness, a brand new kind;

obliquely.

This ever present convalescence

makes; funeral pyres of my presence.

Callum Featherstone

Worn out

Worn out. What was it all for, now?

Forlorn, forgot about;

a black hole where I did shout.

Gone are days – they’re sieved out;

when I take what they give out.

Worn out;

stretched, tumbled, starched;

a struggle to get clean.

Life has left. Ragged and torn now;

by schemes that pull us apart

at the seams.

Worn out;

mangled on a daily basis.

Squeezed until the lemon is no longer envious.

The nights are what is mourned now;

whilst wearing bitter-tasting faces;

the lemon was so wrong to envy us.

Worn out;

nostalgia is a loose thread

that I’m comfortable pulling until the spool is empty.

The belt and buckle are beaten, scorned, now.

Loose mind, loose mouth; lassoed head.

And, except for moi, the launderette for fool’s is empty.

Worn out;

courage is a pair of shoes I spent my last days cleaning and shining.

And, after all that scrubbing my soles have fallen through.

So very tired of living; in exchange for weaving threadbare dreams of being; perpetually quartered, hung and drawn, out.

And, while I’m, dead, focused on the whining;

I’ve missed the infinite hole I’ve fallen into.

Worn out. Please, no more, now.

Withdrawn, without;

spent all, less discount.

Bon marché is a lived shroud;

when I take what they give out.