This tangle I’m in

of root and branch

where abandoned 

horizons crossing 

lines across

an angry devil’s brow

between the barbs 

the horns that hold

my flickering life

in their cupped hands.

Feared of the moss

green dampening dark

as every year

my tangle grows

imperceptibly slow

and croaky cry so

crowed and cawed

to stay or go within 

the limits of the flow.

As I stare out of my bulging

wide this baby’s eye

and the innocence sighs

of old souls dribbling

torrential gushing truth 

in streams that roar comes

from the corners of their

river mouth now 

a gaping Hades gate

a maw.

More than a view

a dream what might

or could have been

stretched into each limb

to calculate a figurine's 

life of  brittle comforts 

as prelude not to preclude

the kicks and rage

when even to live 

with cherub face pressed

to muddy ground is

taking a stand for the choice

and not to be held 

in thrall to your dreams.

©️ Dai Fry 26th May 2020.