The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
Guiding Light
by
Rusty Broadspear
The back of the hand pictured a psoriasis map
Of an undiscovered world.
It was misshapen, arthritic and it trembled
upwards.
The twisted fingers uncurled, to pull the drape
And let a new dawn begin.
Behind him, unseen, silent and furtive,
The translucent orb danced it's way
Across the top shelf of books
Then worked a path down, shelf by shelf,
Occasionally pausing, bouncing,
Brightening, dimming.
His face was drawn into a toonesque scowl.
He wanted to deal to others, his hatred
For all things
Wrapped in the quagmire of life,
On a rock that discards, replenishes
And discards again, whilst spinning so beautifully.
The candlebright globe
Hugged and zig zagged up the wall
To the mantelpiece.
Lingered over a brass candle stick,
And the candle didn't light.
There was no reflected orb in the mirror.
Somehow, this was alright.
Long yellowing finger nails
Slightly scraped the velvet hem.
He was quite still.
His repulsive mind fixated.
His eyeballs protruded. He never slept.
He never wept.
Since that time, in another world
When his family were cremated.
The mantelpiece clock
Could never make up three hours.
It was slowly dying
Or maybe time was coming to an end.
And nothing changed,
As it ticked, tock tocked
In the embrace of the cold quivering orb.
With a surge of unbelievable strength
He tore the drape from it's hooks.
The brass curtain rod came away at one end,
Swinging outwards,
Cracking open the side of his brittle skull.
It left a breach, from which he flew
With his hatred.
The orb turned golden
As it floated to the carpet and inspected the
corpse.
Then it became a whirling dervish,
Sucking remnants,
Invisible entrails of embittered man
Into nothingness.
The only occupant
Of this once, so dismal room,
Was a new dawn.
And the clock
Could never tell the story.
But it could
Tell the correct time.............
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work
