Along the streets of diamonds
Are pavements lined with coal.
Within the church of faith and hope
A torn and tortured soul.
The father is a fisherman
The son a tangled net.
The mother is a metaphor
So simple to forget.
The path for all to follow
Is signed in letters deep blood red.
The lies that wait in silence, yet to be foretold
Caught fast in the throats of the dead.
The baker with his loaves of bread
The prophet with his fish.
Stand sadly on the windswept quay
To sell the fateful dish.
The lives we build on drifting sands
Will always be denied.
Where are the promised diamonds?
The faithful knelt and cried.
I don't believe in fishermen
And prophets are a joke.
At least when I burn my coal
I'm still left with coke.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
YOU ARE READING
Freefall
PoetryFreefall. The title, hopefully, describes what you will find in this collection, I shall write pieces free of the constraints of both form, and structure.
