The Grace Of Bygone Days Poem by Jan Frackiewicz

On these wistful wastes, under forlorn skies
my mist-clad memories were bound to go-and so!
The past would seem a torn and tattered tableau
When Crawling Chaos came to claim The Idiot's Price.

Over barren planes, burns a sulking sun.
Dim-lighted are the lands ever dark and dun.
On nighted hills there's always the sound
of baleful prayers and mad chantings unbound.


Leaves fall -whirl- and fall once more
onto a festering forest floor.
Among trees bearing foetid fruit.
Doleful decay from crown to root.
There I ceased to be a Man of Yore.

Strange atoms flow, darkly dance and glow
through groves where dreary dust-gales blow.
The lonesome winds sweep to otherwhere
Everywhere the selfsame despair.


The bygone days blissfully did grace
us, disciples of the Old Code Ways.


Lokeren, Flanders 20/05/2013