A Rustling

To wonder whilst to wander
in the finer arts of ease,
caught a rippling of echoes
in the overhanging trees.
Such an otherness, of an oddness;
a madness, if you please.
A tempest in the making
in the rustling of the leaves.

Asunder, cracked in thunder
and the darkness that it leaves,
a gathering of shadows
of ungodly strategies.
A form out of the darkness,
of a creature who believes
in blinding its believers
from whomever it deceives.

To blunder into slumber
and for who the death knell grieves
is that between each pealing
save for who the silence breathes.
Why rescued in such quietness
when another clang conceives,
the losing of another
from the other it retrieves?

To lumber through such plunder,
mid the tangling mess of wreathes
where conquests fall to pieces
at the changing of a breeze.
And marching on forever,
of a madness, if you please.
The rising of a tempest
in the rustling of the leaves.

by Tony Grannell

Comments (2)

You're a Master of rhymes, Tony. The onomatopoeia is simply amazing here! You can nearly feel the storm brewing...
Tony, such a well-written poem👍👍👍