The Constant Reader Podcast

Two Idiots Prattle on about their Stephen King Obsession

Poetry From A Broken Mantle by Bradley Hornsby

Faith sent on a melting block of assurance

fights off the sea of doubt,

crashing waves at each way as potential doom leers.  

Lost amongst the emptiness,

suffocated by the thick air of nothing.

Choked.

Leaping out - a glimmer amongst dark,

a handle, held for all mercy against

The pull.

Weighted, dragging, covering the hands, intertwining the grip with assurance as it loosens.

Return.

Come back

and forget by remembering.

Haunted memories is the only solace.

Weaker still, but stronger with less energy spent.

Nonsense.

Not gone but moved,

a better hold out of the wind.

Set aside to focus on it.

Rejection, loss, defeat press on in their search,

workaholics who demand results.

They poke and taunt the hidden hope.

The sunken spirit.

The bravehearted bauble.

Never forgotten but set upon the moment it wants.

No restraint reason reasoning.

Time moves

scores are kept

odds are stacked.

Ad nauseum.

Overtime.

Hidden it stays

and wished and wanted

it lay examined in tortuous perfection

and back to its perch of hopeful hides.

Dark shadows for longer periods of rest against the obvious exhuming.

The hope filled calendar ticks on way back set away from the machinery,

but it's trailing corner flails in the stirring winds of reminded self-flagellation that dance the dates forward towards the cogs of normalcy,

begging to be pulled down.

STOP THE PRESSES.

Snag.

Clog.

Caught up

tangled

entrapped

and madly pleased for the delay and time stamp of assurance, before its retracted returned and repaired.

Encouraged.

Coaxed.

Set again proper

never to happen again.

Yet the trailing corner flails.