LANIAKEA’S WIND
Ghost riders.
Their particulars
printed to the flesh,
bound to living bone.
Origins forgotten,
dying revenants in
their crumbling towers:
civilisations long dead.
Thought weavers bait
as restless dreamers
thrash and buck,
bound in twists of linen.
Awaking only to sleep.
Life’s time travellers
nihilist clawed, reaching
beyond meaning, tearing
at the vacuous godhead.
We live as wasps do.
Angry, buzz-busy, wrapped
in our nest led lives.
Stirred back and fore,
this slow grinding
mill, a spiral of stars.
In a night’s quiet
sense a rising.
The galaxy’s eerie cry,
it is Laniakea’s wind.
NEOLITHIC FLOWERS
Eternity’s span
this arch of stars,
counts time beyond
ten fingertips.
Into wicker’s rest.
Fill this grave
with a crush
of wildflowers.
Mixed meadows
delicate pastels
and fine perfumes,
grace your memory.
Unbearable grief
and beauty speak
under the voice.
Why must our ways
always be run,
through a curtain
of dying flowers and
falling tears.
AMARULENCE
Billow-shakers
hold tight to the corners
of cool winds,
in this season of forever.
And in far reaching fires,
we wait for Khamsin winds
and desert grains. To fall
dry as stinging rain.
Conceived in failure and
nurtured with self-doubt,
amarulence grows.
A corkscrew of pain,
as vision tunnels to eye
the heart of a malcontent.
An anthem of injustice rings.
Mighty bells of
beaten copper and tin.
Out here in this static heat
a threat is annunciated.
Tremble as gentle anger
whispers your name.
Dai Fry is a poet living on the south coast of England. Originally from Swansea. Wales was and still is a huge influence on everything. My pen is my brush. Twitter: @thnargg Web: seekingthedarklight.co.uk
Fevers of the Mind 
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