A Cold Crimson Mist by Ken Allan Dronsfield

In a mystical graveyard fog primordial swamp lands cry
the Moon devours icy stars
clouded pastel hues arrive
traversing into the universe vagabonds of a dark night
we desire tomorrow’s pain
upon a visceral dream state
a comets tail stings the soul be monarch or revolutionary
anarchist or fallen sovereign
inhaling a cold crimson mist.
whispers in a turquoise haze hatred fears the homestead
floating in a prism of stains
piety carries a cross of fury,
as I wake with a sudden jolt, a lost misty queried fantasy,
cold lifeless strangled soul,
a hard grasp in the marrow.
Seethe deep underground, with crispy labored breaths
buried alive it now seems,
into a vessel of lonely death.
Life bequeaths a venom, heartless emasculated decree.
Within that crimson cold
Satan, from below, calls to me
yes, I was hated in my day but now everybody loves me.

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.


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