Cuttlefish Hour (The Faint Skull)

Born of grim days;
temples of doubt in the grain,
little stony beats
winding in breath like an octopus
groping for delinquent fry.
Cotton clogs the air
and panic brings to life
the final minutes of long years.
Clock hands become triggers
never ending swipes at the soul.
The inward eye once filled with corn and bottle
now looks on scenes of Golgotha,
searching for the might
of recovery in snippets of terrible noise.
Silence smash the hours to pulp,
madness,
raise your magic in bony fired deserts.

@Steven Francis poems 2009