Four a.m.
their words are this;
theirs and ours, all for lone-
minded thought that the one
has come, to speak at last
after all these years, come
in from the toil of stitching
a patchwork reality and time
onto polarised segments
of truth in hollow minds which
still need told those heretics bones
purge for us, and ourselves alone,
yet look, hark, their angels sing
all just words, words all these things.
This
spirited hounds
leave no stone unturned,
haunt fair game
in nature’s realm.
as growling tails shake uncut
the dog is wagged.
rather than tricked
by that greatest trick
know it does not exist;
the shot foot drags
as limp as this fox tale,
tattered and old; gets told
and retold by those who hold
key to these gates of hell.
Martin McKenna
Bindweed Magazine 