Don't ask me about meaning. There is no meaning. There are only the words...
Faithful Feeders
By Francis Scudellari
It's not the sweetness
coursing crimson inside
that these faithful feeders seek
drawn darkly
by the midnight blue
currents we wade across
Nor is it the pink flesh
of tensed muscles
closely cupped to catch
a filtered fire
slow-dripped till clear
through the morning's lucent mist
No, they feast instead
at noon's shallow edges
with greased hands that tear spines
from fathomless tomes
of hobbled scriptures
to suck the pasty marrow
5 comments:
Wow Francis, your poems never fail to amaze me.
How you weave words into a meaningful poem. It's like a mystery which would remain pure and lovely in the reader's own interpretation.
Brilliant!
The holly books readers
@Jena Thanks... this one may lend itself to being interpreted in similar ways.
@Victor Readers, or perhaps users.
I enjoyed this one Francis.
@JC Thanks!
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