Central (Poem)

Note: This poem entirely steals from "Picture of Autumn" by Thomas Chatterton. The poem may be considered to be an inspired retelling in this aspect, but it is more accurately described as artistic highway robbery from early british romanticism. I also COMPLETELY stole my description of winter as warm from Eliot's "The Wasteland". I am unfortunately not creative, but regardless I hope you like the poem loyal rathin.blog reader.



 Central


When winter, overbearing and warm, do appear,

With his old hand aging the falling ice

Bringing up silver and gold to crucify the year

Bearing upon his back the weighted dice

When all the homes, those hills, are young

When some levied roses, and inks, do meet

From where they’re sung.

When naught left is fair, and the sunbleak sheets

Do bend the body unto the sleepless ground

When I am searching for something which repeats

When the rhythmic signature do give way

To the game we found

And we forget our worst bound hopes to play

When that board game box, rudde as even sky

Cannot compare, and all the while the eye

Does not break from the game of Catan

Going on behind us

When calcium do leak from the muth below

When all that’s left of that basement is Trust

When you speak to me of hell,

That deep’s where I’ll go

When in bare quik-silver I am to bryne

Then, be the even foul, or even fair

I’ll care again one more time.
Again.

It is like the ice that has turned to brown mush

And melts alone under the light of the sun.

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