If Razors Could Talk – a poem

We reap what we sow, seeds left to sprout,

Pre-destined dire dreams loom, shock doubt,

Those unclean towers humbly piled, soar

With darkly grasping fingers for ceilings

Sorrowful from these wondering eyes of



For a surplus of pain seeds may be had,

Scattered, planted, flowers to grow

From soil fertile in sadness, growth

Of bulbs with madness and death, razors

Gleaming with songs sung in other lives,



The smoke, storms and sorrow of a century

And more may not have weathered better

An edifice as such which lays claim

To that maleficent moniker, clay title,

The Devil’s own wonderment and opiate



Funny lines creased into faces, arms laced

From blazes found amidst lanes soulful,

Jets in vacuum, the towers reach, the seeds

Sown leave no space free for foragers,

A will of winsome wonder turned worrisome,


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