Oblation… Lois E. Linkens and Eric Syrdal

We walk towards a
promised land,
soaked in milk and softest
sand.

hard trudge
of cracked feet, muddled in
the mire
roadside ditches
dirge laden as they walk.

chapped and broken
mouths cry out
for a taste of sweet water
to imbibe the knowledge of
man’s long
dance with death.

and I, from my mount
stand tall against the ruined
sky
a king carried above the
filthy ash that
floats

upon the fetid wind from
the west
in the last days of the sun.

Our feet are hot, the path is
still.
We bend towards the
future’s will.

Your eyes are caved and bleak.
The road is long
when the trudge follows
only cloud dreams,
pink and blue and pale
but stupid drops in a
cracked palm.

Die – leave the children,
they can whisper
to the sky and gather
stones,
suck salt fingers with
dry pink tongues like
maple.

They do not know to need;
they forget the red skies
and smoke.

Each broken step is
precious blood,
Our father’s deaths were
writ for good.

Like barnacles
clinging to the hull of a ship
Just beneath the topaz
surface
or in the oily brine dark
they know only to clutch
to the scraps of life
anything to stay buoyant

Each broken step is
precious blood,
Our father’s deaths were
writ for good.

I will,
take the earthen bowl
raise it to the deaf gods of
a cracked heaven

They queue at my altar
clutch and raise the hem
of my vicar’s robe
to leave blood kisses
and bits of carrion feathers
upon the mangy threads

I will, minister the
salt potion
tip the dusty rim against
their teeth
Let is pass through their
wispy curtain
of bone husks

Broken, clinking and
tangled
marionettes in the grip
of Oblivion

We ache for salt,
we burn for bread.
But good men are by
hardship led.

Lyrical tithe
their hearts do speak
blindly their sullen eyes will
seek

A wooden grail
lying in the road
to grease their lips whilst
speak their ode

But the chipped rim
of their sacred cup
will only serve to shut them
up

For a bauble held
in desperate hands
can make so much
gold from dust and sand

We ache for salt,
we burn for bread.
But good men are by
hardship led.

And while I could
direct them safe
my purpose remains to
abrade and chafe

United by thirst
they’re of no use to me
I need them at odds,
abandoned and weak

We walk towards
a promised land,
Soaked in milk and softest
sand.

We’ve not enough tears to
wet the land
and bring the grass, anew

We’ve only the memories
of a time before this
when all our dreams came
true.

A deadened bruise of sky
will wake
upon the morrow’s echoed
dawn.
Put on your dark, your
blackest things –
the sweet old earth will mourn.

About Eric

Writer/Plumber/Poet/Father/Gentleman/Romantic
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1 Response to Oblation… Lois E. Linkens and Eric Syrdal

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