Lure Of Ladders

You take it from ages
and then pass away like stalling ice,
(sorry die,
where are our less than perfect manners?)
Ailing ranks, burnt smiles
weave grated dagger lines
as senseless time
lends a hand to forge saints in crafted ink.

And down beneath the lure of ladders
a ghost looking ghost
grows bolder than a clock face,
swapping wrists for hours.
Those sympathetic trails lead to lights
and morse code, happy ending routes
where gritted soldiers march to divide
electricty and horizons.

Oh by jaws of grace!
Those sons of thunder
will bait maggot cloth to dress a death
in bony sunset.
Stamp of destination, shy of eternity,
the barrel face of numbers
seeking madmen in stone of Man.

© Steven Francis poems 2012